Little Black Lies (24 page)

As we were leaving the office, I started to explain to Dad. How, while it might be difficult to believe, the yoga pants, the test, it was all connected. True to his word, he listened. And when I finished, he said I'd suffered enough. That we were not going to refer to my crimes again. Life at Ant was a thing of the past.

Dad offered me a ride home in the green VW Beetle he bought from Alex Reiser, but I told him I had to clean out my locker and would meet him at home. In truth, there's nothing much in my locker I really care about, but I wasn't ready to sit in a car that Leo may have driven around in. Not just yet.

Leo hasn't been at school. He'll come back to hear I was expelled. Nice. I'll never see him again. Not that it matters. I lied to him as much as anyone else, and that's pretty much unforgivable.

More than a few kids refuse to speak to me on the way to my locker. Griff turns away when I say hello. As if he's never met me, never come on to me. The itchy, rashy Benadryl girls trot by in a fit of accusatory sniffs and wheezes. A few guys from math class toss me a grenade: “Way to fit in,
Saint
Sarah.” Needless to say, no one calls me London.

All of this is fine; I can't say I don't deserve it. Most people are accepting of Charlie and that's all that matters at this point. But for my choices, it could have been this way from the start.

Poppy, however … Poppy's final reaction hurt. I passed her on the escalator up to the third floor and smiled. I don't know what I was thinking. It's not as if, now that I'm the rejected one, I have the gall to try to befriend her after avoiding her all this time. It was more a smile to say
thank you
. A smile to say
I'm sorry
. But she looked at me and winced, as if the thought of communicating with me offended her to the core.

I'd have loved one last peppermint.

Carling is nowhere to be seen. I overheard in the halls that she's being questioned at the police station. But I'm not too worried about that girl. She always seems to find her way.

The best part about living above a hardware store? Moving out. When you run out of packing tape to seal up your cartons, there's plenty more three flights down. And, lucky for us, Heritage Hardware has a great selection of cleaning products, so Dad can be certain he's leaving the floor beneath the stove so spotless the next family can climb underneath and eat their dinner right off the yellow linoleum. Should they desire to do so. And should they be extremely flexible and tiny and not own any dishes.

It's wrong that Charlie needs to scrub this place silly before we leave next week. But I'm biting my tongue. What is it they say? You have to pick your battles. Besides, I'm so proud of his new career move and his willingness to find a doctor I figure I can look the other way on the unnecessary scrubbing. I will say this. Whoever moves into this place won't have to clean for a year.

I've never been to New York. Neither has Dad. He went on the Internet and found us a new apartment close to his work. We saw pictures. It's even smaller than this place, if that's possible, but it's the entire top floor of an old brownstone, and there's a patio on the rooftop we're allowed to use. And my room? Nothing like my lopsided lair. Nothing like Rascal's coffin-shaped garret. My new room has one tangerine-colored wall and a huge bay window that overlooks the street. I like the sound of that. There's a flowering tree out front and I'll be able to open my window and smell the blossoms in the spring.

“I'm going to leave the linen closet for you,” calls Dad from the kitchen. “You're so good at folding fitted sheets.”

“Nothing more than simple household geometry. It's all in the angles,” I shout from my room, where I'm packing up the contents of my desk. “And the thread count.”

“That's my little van Gogh.”

What? I toss a dictionary into a box full of my desk contents and head into the kitchen, where Dad is wiping down a cupboard we never even used. “Dad. You can't be serious. Van Gogh wasn't a mathematician. He was the—”

“I know.” He pauses to douse his sponge with Mr. Clean, then goes back to work. “The Dutch painter who cut off his left ear. I was just messing with you.”

I eye him teasingly. “Since when did you get so fancy?”

“I was in charge of cleaning the art department at Ant. A guy's bound to pick up a few things. If he's listening.”

“So germs are
not
the only thing you think about when you clean. Interesting.” He's staring down at the floor by my bare feet. “What?”

“Footprints.”

Sure enough, I've left powdery marks on the floor. “Dad, I just showered. That's baby powder. It's not dirt.”

“Still.” He gets down on one knee and leans over to erase them.

Before he does, I grab his wrist. “Don't do it.”

He looks up at me, blinking. He tries to pull his wrist away but I squeeze tighter. We stay that way for a minute, staring into each other's eyes. I can see how hard this is for him. He needs to wipe up the shapes of my toes, my heels. It's too much for him. Just as I release his wrist, there's a knock at the door. I kiss Charlie on the cheek and stand, knowing what will happen the moment I leave the room. The floor will be polished. And polished. And polished.

I open the door to find Carling Burnack herself standing in the hall. She looks terrible: her hair's unwashed, the circles under her eyes seem like smears of mud. It's a good thing Charlie's busy. He'd be liable to take a mop to Carling's face. Keys jangle in one hand as she crosses her arms. “Is it true?”

“How did you know where I live?”

“Don't screw around with me. I know.”

“Know what?”

“What everyone's talking about. That you're seeing Leo. Griff told me you guys went out last weekend. Is it true?”

“Why would Griff …?”

She steps into the doorway and hisses, “I called Leo myself, you know. I told him everything. So if you think you have a chance with him now, you're out of your mind. He'd never get mixed up with someone like you.” She steps closer but I block her from entering.

“Because I'm a janitor's daughter?”

“Because you're a liar, a thief, and, yes, a total fraud. So tell me, are you seeing Leo?”

“No.”

“Swear you never will. You owe me that much.”

“I don't owe you anything, Carling. Especially not that.”

Then I, little Sara Black from Lundon, Massachusetts, do something I never would have imagined. I thump the door closed in Carling Burnack's face. For the first time, I don't give her what she wants. Though in a way I guess I do. If making me sad was her intention, she scored big-time.

It isn't until the sound of her footsteps stomping down the wooden steps has gone silent that I realize I'll never see my mother's green sweater again.

Charlie is no longer in the kitchen, but the sponge is lying on the counter. Before I turn back to my packing, I stop and stare at the floor, a proud smile crinkling one cheek. The floor is still covered in my powdery footprints. Which means one thing. Big Charlie resisted wiping them away.

The driver hangs out the window as he backs the flatbed truck—beeping like a terrible alarm clock when morning has come too early—down our alley. Beneath his elbow are the words
ATLANTIC TOWING
. When the truck jerks to a stop, the beeping is replaced by an angry hiss and the bed of the truck rises on an angle at the front, which lowers the back like a ramp right under the hood of the black sedan.

The Bentley is being repossessed.

Noah and I stand shivering in T-shirts and jeans and watch as the driver climbs out, his breath forming cartoon cloud puffs, and sets about attaching chains and gizmos that will pull the car up onto the truck.

“Will you miss it?” I ask him.

He takes a drag from a joint so skinny it looks like a twist tie and speaks while holding his breath. “A little. What I'll miss even more, believe it or not, are the Burnacks. And the paychecks. However rare they were.” He laughs a little and holds up his joint. “A guy's got to get his greens.”

I snort. “There's some twisted logic.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us have your smarts.”

“Will you keep in touch with her?”

“Carling? Hell. I've been around since she was a kid. If she calls, I'll pick up the phone.”

We fall silent while the Bentley is pulled, creaking and groaning, up and onto the truck. The gleaming car could not look more out of place, squatting on the back of the rusted tow truck with a look of disdain on her front grille.

The cement steps beneath our feet rumble as the tow truck revs its engine and begins to creep forward. I hear a cough above our heads and see Dad poking his head through his bedroom window three stories up. He salutes the departure of the Bentley with a slow whistle. “There goes one beautiful vehicle,” he says, watching it glide past the Dumpsters and disappear down the lane. “You're going to miss poking around that engine, Noah. So am I.”

“Can't argue with that.”

“What about you?” Dad asks him. “Where will you end up?”

I can't tell if Noah frowns or smiles; maybe it's a bit of both. “As long as I'm behind a wheel or under a hood, one place is as good as the next.” Which makes me sad for him. A hunk of metal, no matter how fancy, cannot provide much in the way of companionship. Noah squints up at Dad. “However hard I fall, I'm sure to land on my ass.”

“Sounds painful,” says Dad.

I have an idea. “Thanksgiving's coming up, Dad. Maybe Noah can come stay with us.”

“Noah's always welcome.” The phone rings from our apartment. Dad waves with two fingers before disappearing inside.

There's an open carton full of magazines, books, bundled newspapers, and cardboard at Noah's feet. He's been clearing out his apartment, preparing to move. I bend down to look through the box and pull out an old coffee-table book with a cover shot of a horse wearing a striped blanket. Ironically, the photo looks like it was taken in England. Silvery mist lying low over mossy hills. Stone stable with a thatched roof. The title is no-nonsense:
Sensible Horse Management
. “Is this yours?” I ask Noah.

He looks at the book and chuckles. “The last tenant left it. I used it to prop my bathroom window open all summer.”

“Would you mind if I take it?”

“You buying a horse?”

“No.” I smile. “But I might just have a window that needs opening.”

Dad's looking out again, this time with a strange expression on his face. “Sara. You better get upstairs. Your mother's on the phone. She's here in Boston.”

She has a scarf around her neck. It's light green and silky with the pattern of a garden trellis all over it. Classy looking, like something Gracie would own. It makes me feel sad for her. My mother is so dainty and elegant and pretty, she should have had such a different sort of life. Then again, maybe she's having it now.

“You'd love it there, Sara,” she says as the waiter sets two Caesar salads in front of us. “Paris is so different. We live for the day. We walk to the market every day and pick up fresh food. You should see my fridge. It fits right under the counter.”

“Wow. Sounds cool.”

“Even what's considered beautiful is different. People don't work so hard to look plastic. People appreciate a clean face. A strong body. Simply cut clothes of good material. If you can believe it, I am actually considered a beauty among the other students in my course.”

I can believe it. She looks wonderful. Her hair is loose, falling around her face. She's put on a couple of pounds, not enough that anyone but me would notice. Just enough to round out her cheeks a bit, make her look healthier. Happier. The only makeup on her face is a swipe of red lipstick. I try to commit the shade to memory, so I can try to find something like it at the drugstore. “You really do look beautiful, Mom.”

“So do you, sweetie.” She takes my hand in hers. Her skin is so soft it could be liquid. “God, I've missed seeing you, holding you.”

“Me too.”

“Sara?”

“Yes?”

“Mike is here in Boston with me. He spent the day back in Lundon visiting with Tori. We were hoping you might come to a show with us tomorrow.” She leans closer. “Do you think you might be okay with that?”

Hmm. You know what would be just as much fun? If I pick up my water glass right now, bite into it, and swallow the glass shards along with the ice cubes. “I don't know,” I mumble. “I'll have to check with Dad. There's a lot of packing to do. And stuff.”

“Okay. I understand.” She leans back in her seat. “Has it been terrible for you? All this change? And now you're moving again….”

Something tells me she doesn't want the truth. The truth of me doesn't fit in with her market-fresh food or the cut of her new clothes. I tell her what she wants to hear. She did, after all, come an awfully long way just to eat salad with me, when it sounds as if there is perfectly good lettuce closer to home. “It's been fine.”

And her eyes shine with relief. “Next time you'll come to visit me, okay? When you're ready. You still have that ticket?”

“I might have lost it.”

“No problem. We'll have one reissued. Hopefully your new school won't be quite so demanding. Maybe over spring break?”

“Maybe.” I poke around on my plate for a smallish piece of romaine lettuce, one that will fit in my mouth without too much effort.

“Great. The weather should be better by then. Spring comes earlier there, from what I hear. I forgot, when I signed up for this Boston Culinary Arts Seminar, how cold it can be in Massachusetts. All I brought to keep me warm was a thin blazer I found in—”

“Wait. You're here for a conference?”

“Yes. And to see you, of course.”

As she babbles on about lightweight clothing and the chill in the presentation rooms and the firmness of her hotel mattress, I lay down my fork. Creamy garlic with chopped anchovies is no longer a good idea. Not with the way my stomach has just turned inside out with my own stupidity. My mother didn't get on a plane so that she could come to see me. I wasn't the plan. I was convenient.

She notices I've gotten quiet and stops. “Honey, are you okay?”

“I don't know. It's a lot of garlic.” It's a good excuse. I could complain a bit more, then tell her I should probably go home and lie down. She'd put me in a cab and I could go home to my father. Help him with the last of the packing. We have to get up early tomorrow to load up the trailer. It would be nice to be rested.

“Here.” She pulls a white roll from the linen-covered bread basket, butters it lightly. Holds it out for me. “Just nibble on this. And if your stomach calms down, we'll order you something else, okay? I hear the minestrone soup is excellent.”

As I stare at the roll, I realize it's all she has to give. She doesn't have all of herself to offer me, not like Dad does. She has what she has, so what's the use in expecting more? More won't happen. I can either accept it now or I can torture myself forever. It could be worse. A bread basket between us is still better than the gutter of a tenth-grade science textbook.

As I reach for the roll, I know I might not miss that green sweater at all. “Okay. Minestrone sounds good.”

My purse starts blasting “Strawberry Fields Forever” when Mom's in the restroom. My phone's still dead, so Charlie gave me his in case I wanted to be picked up early. I debate not answering. The display number isn't home, so it's not Dad. And no one else would be calling me on his number. But the ringtone is insanely loud and I can't find the mute button.

“Hello?”

I hear crunching. “Dude. Did you find it in a Dumpster?”

“Mandy?”

“There was a dried-out noodle between two pages. Spaghettini, I think. In some kind of funky hardened pink sauce.”

“But the book's cool. It had all these ‘Be Your Own Barn Dominatrix' instructions inside.” All around me conversations grow quiet and heads turn in my direction. “I thought it would be perfect for you.”

“I'm kidding,” Mandy says. “It's a great book. Thanks.”

“No problem. And I almost did find it in a Dumpster.” I'm talking so loud the waiter shushes me. But I don't shush myself one bit.

“Sweet.”

“I'm the sorriest person alive. You realize that, don't you?”

“Sorry apologetic or sorry pathetic?”

“Pick either one and we'll go with it.”

“Can I pick both? Because, you know, there was that noodle.”

I grin. Mandy's back in my life. Sarcastic, funny, pink-streaked Mandy. I can handle almost anything—even Michael Nathan—with Mandy on my side. “Yeah. There was that noodle.”