Saint Anything (11 page)

“I do,” I admitted. Although “watch” was putting it mildly. Before her, it was the only thing I had in the afternoons. “I watch all of the Big franchise, actually.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked this girl!” I turned to see Mrs. Chatham, in a red tracksuit, using a walker to make her way down the hall toward us. Rosie was behind her, carrying a Nike duffel bag and what I already recognized as her standard dissatisfied expression. “Are you Team Rosalie or Team Ayre?”

Sadly, I did not even have to think about my answer. “Team Ayre.”

She smiled. “You can stay.”

Layla rolled her eyes as her mother made her way over to the chair, easing herself down onto the seat. Rosie, meanwhile, fetched an afghan from the couch (I heard the dogs snap at her, then each other) while Layla picked up the insulated cup, carrying it into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned, twisting the top back on, and set it on the table.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Mrs. Chatham said as Rosie tucked the blanket over her. “Now, you two stop hovering, I’m fine. You don’t want to be late for Arthur, since he fit you in last-minute.”

“We’ll be back after, just as soon as Mac can pick us up, okay?” Layla told her. “And I have my phone on.”

“I am perfectly capable of spending a couple of hours alone. Now scoot, all of you.”

She waved her hand and her daughters scattered, Rosie picking up her duffel bag while Layla moved to the TV, turning it on and cuing up an episode of
Big Chicago
I hadn’t yet seen. Elena, the society wife, was crying, although her makeup remained perfect. Mrs. Chatham smiled, settling into her chair. The last thing I heard as we left was her cranking up the volume.

“Nice ride,” Rosie observed as we got into my car. Just like her sister had upon getting in earlier, she ran a hand over the leather seat admiringly, then peered up through the sunroof. “Is it the sport package?”

“Nope,” Layla said. “You can tell by the wheels.”

“Sure beats our cars,” Rosie replied, easing back against the seat. “I could get used to this.”

“Don’t,” Layla told her. “Sydney’s doing you a serious favor.”

“And I appreciate it.”

“Then maybe you should
say
so.”

“It’s really nothing,” I said. “I hate being home after school anyway.”

This got their attention: I could feel them both look at me, even though I had my eyes on the road. “Really?” Rosie said. “Why?”

“Mind your own business,” Layla told her.

“What? You don’t say something like that unless you want someone to ask about it.”

“What are you, a psychologist now?”

I had a feeling this bickering was close to becoming a full-out argument, something I did not think the small space we were in could handle. So I said, “It’s just sort of . . . weird. Since my brother’s been gone. Lonely, I guess. Anyway, the point is I’m happy to have something to do. Really.”

I could tell Rosie, behind me, wanted to ask more questions. But Layla pulled down the visor, ostensibly checking her face in the mirror there, and shot her a look. We drove the rest of the way, a short distance, without talking.

Once at the rink, Rosie went to the locker rooms while Layla made a beeline for the snack bar and the subpar fries. As the woman behind the counter scooped them into a paper cup, she sighed. “Sorry about all this. My sister makes me nuts.”

“It’s really okay,” I said.

“She’s just so . . .” She sighed again, picking through the basket of ketchup packets, as if one might be better than another. Knowing her, there
was
a way to tell. “Entitled. Like the world owes her. She’s always been like that.”

“My brother is kind of the same way,” I told her. “I thought it was an only-son thing. But maybe it’s a firstborn thing, too.”

“I think, in this case, it’s just a Rosie thing.” She selected a second packet, then helped herself to some napkins. “At least when she was younger, she could blame the stress of skating, all that competition.”

“She was good, huh?” I said.

“She was
great
.” Layla slid a five-dollar bill across the counter. “It wasn’t an excuse for being a bitch, of course. But knowing she was capable of something beautiful, as well as being wholly unpleasant? It somehow made it easier to take.”

This made a weird kind of sense to me. Not that my brother had an impressive skill like skating, but he had gotten a long way on charm. Nobody was all bad, I was learning. Even the worst person had someone who cared about them at some point.

Now, back in the bleachers, I watched Layla drag another fry through her pepper ketchup (pepchup?), then take a halfhearted bite. Down on the ice, a middle-aged man with styled blond hair, wearing black Lycra pants and a bright blue fleece, was leading a girl who looked to be about twelve through some jumps. She had that consummate skater look I recognized from Saturday afternoon sports shows, small and lithe with a perky ponytail, and as she landed each jump, the man’s face made it clear whether he was happy or not.

“That’s Arthur,” Layla said when she saw me watching him. “He’s the reason I have crooked teeth and always will.”

“Your teeth aren’t crooked.”

“They’re not straight, either. Not like yours. You had braces, right?”

I nodded. “I hated them.”

“Yes, but look at you now.” She picked up another fry. “I needed them. The dentist said so. But private coaching at Arthur’s level isn’t cheap, so . . .”

Back on the ice, the girl had just landed and was circling around to try again. “Wow. Was she really aiming for the Olympics?”

“Yeah. But never got further than regionals. Then she took the job touring with Mariposa, which at least helped my parents out financially. I was so mad when she got busted and dropped from that show.” She shook her head. “I’m all about taking one for the team. But her being so stupid . . . it stung. Like all those years, all that money, was for nothing.”

As she said this, another girl skated onto the ice. It took me a minute to realize it was Rosie. Maybe it was the distance, or that she’d changed into skating gear, but she looked different. She began circling the outer edge of the ice, slowly picking up speed, and even with this most basic of moves, it was clear she was better than the girl we’d been watching. There was a simple, undiluted grace to her movements, something wholly in contrast to her normal, nose-wrinkled, complaining self. As if instead of shriveling in the cold like most people, she bloomed.

Layla was also watching as she passed by once, then twice. The third time, she turned, lifting her chin to acknowledge us, and Layla nodded back, giving her a smile. This surprised me, after all we’d been talking about. But then, a lot about Layla was a mystery.

“She’s really nervous,” she explained to me, as if sensing this. “She’s been working out alone, but this is the first time he’s agreed to see her since all this happened. That’s why she was being such a bitch. Or one reason, anyway.”

After a few words with Arthur, the younger girl left the ice and he waved Rosie over. They talked for a moment, and then he gestured for her to take another lap, turning to watch her as she began.

“Oh, God, I can’t watch. Even at practice I get crazy nervous for her. I used to be such a mess during competitions. My mom would beg me to go get fries.” She pulled out her phone, typing in her passcode, then opened her pictures. “When I did stay, though, I was always glad. Look at this.”

She handed me the phone, where a video was now playing on the screen. It was of another rink, a fancier one, with Rosie twirling in its center. She started slowly, her arms spread wide, then began to speed up, pulling them in against her until she was almost a blur. Then, as the tinny distant music came to a sudden stop, she did as well, striking a pose with her head thrown back. As the crowd applauded and cheered, the sound a thunderous roar, she smiled.

“That was the last year she competed,” Layla said. She flipped to the next shot, which showed Mrs. Chatham, clearly in better health, posing with Layla, Rosie (who held a bouquet of roses), and a huge trophy. Off to the side was a heavyset guy in a shapeless sweatshirt and jeans, half cut off by the camera. At first I assumed he’d just stumbled into the picture accidentally. Then I realized.

“Is that . . .” I stopped, then picked up the phone, narrowing my eyes at it.

“Mac,” she finished for me. “Yeah. It is.”

I reached down, using my thumb and forefinger to enlarge that part of the photo until his face filled the screen. With a much heftier frame and a bad case of acne, he looked so different, I couldn’t quite believe it was the same person. But the eyes were identical, the hair with the lock tumbling over his forehead. “Wow. What did he—”

“Lost thirty pounds, for starters. And when he started eating better, his skin cleared up.” She picked up another fry. “Crazy, right? Sometimes I still see him in the hallway at home and wonder who he is.”

“I can’t believe he looked like that.”

“You would if you saw how he used to eat. The boy could
consume
. He was like Irv, but without the height, muscle, and football. And it was all junk.”

“I can’t even imagine that.” I was still staring at his face, wider, pockmarked. “What made him want to change?”

“Wouldn’t you?” she asked, nodding at the picture. She ate the fry. “Really, though, I think he finally just got sick of being the fat kid. It was what he’d been for as long as I can remember. Rosie was talented, I was cute. He was fat.”

This wasn’t news to me, how your entire life could come down to one word, and not of your choosing. I knew it better than anyone. Each time I was reminded, though, I wished that much harder it wasn’t the case. I said, “So how did he lose the weight?”

“He started by hiking in the woods. Then he moved up to jogging, and finally outright running. He’d get up before school and just disappear back there for hours. Still does, every single morning.”

“Really.”

“Just hearing him
leave
at five thirty a.m. makes me tired,” she said. “Plus he never eats, like, anything fun anymore. Just protein, veggies, and fruit. I wouldn’t last a day. Or even an hour.”

There was a shout from the ice, and we both looked back at Rosie, who had just landed a jump, apparently rather sloppily. Arthur shook his head, then barked something else, and she circled around, nodding, her hands on her hips.

“Ugh,” Layla said, wiping her fingers with a napkin. “I can’t take this, it’s too stressful. Before I know it I’ll be buying more of these awful fries just to cope.”

I smiled, then looked at my watch. It was five forty-five; I had to be home in fifteen minutes, which meant even if I left right that second I’d be pushing it. I was not looking forward to dinner and more discussion of Lincoln’s Family Day, however, so I stayed put long enough to see Rosie do a few spins, stumble once, and finally earn the slightest of approving smiles from Arthur, the sight of which caused Layla to audibly exhale.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her, gathering up my stuff. “Sorry I can’t take you guys home.”

“It’s fine. Mac’s always somewhere nearby. And you’ve done more than enough.”

I smiled, then waved as I started down the steps to the exit. Before I pushed open the door to the lobby, I looked back just in time to catch Rosie doing her best jump yet, then sticking the landing and gliding on. It seemed like just the right note to depart upon, with everything perfect, at least for a second. I left before I could see anything else.

CHAPTER
9

“YOU’RE HERE!”
Jenn reached forward, grabbing my wrist and pulling me through the door with one big yank. “I am
so
, so happy to see you! It’s been
ages
!”

When she gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, though, I knew something was up. Jenn was a lot of things, but effusive wasn’t one of them.

“Hey,” I said as she began pulling me down the hallway. “What’s going on?”

“We are having
so
much fun,” she said. “Come on, you have to meet Margaret.”

Judging by the dragging, it was clear I didn’t have a choice in the matter, so I let her take me into the kitchen. There, I saw Meredith at the island, looking uneasy, while a dark-haired girl with her back to me dumped some ice in the blender.

“Sydney’s here!” Jenn, who also was not loud—ever—shouted. “And she needs a drink.”

“Of course she does,” Margaret said, turning around. She had long black hair tumbling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles. A pretty girl, with a kind of spark to her you saw right away. “And it’s a fresh batch, to boot. Let me get you a glass.”

It was when she moved aside, reaching up into a cabinet, that I saw the rum bottle. I looked back at Meredith, who had her own glass, which looked untouched. Two others on the island held only slushy dregs. “What are we drinking?”

“Piña coladas,” Jenn announced. “Margaret’s special recipe. And they are
delicious
.”

“The ice is key,” Margaret explained, pouring a glass, then topping off the two empty ones. “Most people don’t realize that.”

When she handed me my glass, I took it, but didn’t drink. “So your parents aren’t here?”

“No, they’re in the living room,” Jenn replied. I just looked at her. “I’m joking! Of course not. They’re out for the night. I told them we were going to Antonella’s for pizza and then watching movies.”

“And we’re not?” I asked.

“Is that what you want to do?” Margaret asked me.

“No,” I said. There was something about her tone, the way she raised an eyebrow, that made me say this automatically. “I just didn’t realize . . . Since when do you drink, Jenn?”

She put down her glass, then wiped a hand over her lips. “What do you mean? I’ve drank before.”

“When?”

“All the time. You know that, Sydney.”

Margaret was watching this exchange, an expression of mild amusement on her face. Over at the island, Meredith picked up her glass and took a sip.

“Okay,” I said, not wanting to point out that I’d known Jenn since preschool and never seen her do anything more than take a parent-approved sip of wine at Christmas dinner. I sniffed my drink. “What’s in this?”

“Oh, just drink it,” Margaret said, flipping her hand at me. “It’ll help you relax.”

I looked at her. “I don’t need to relax.”

She took a big gulp of her own drink. “All I’m saying is that this is a birthday celebration. So let’s have fun, okay?”

“Seconded,” Jenn said, holding out her glass. Margaret did the same before nodding at Meredith, who raised hers as well. Then they all looked at me.

I picked up my glass. “To Jenn. Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday!” everyone repeated.
Clink.
Jenn immediately took a big gulp, but Margaret kept her eyes on me, not drinking, as I raised my glass to my mouth, taking a sip. Then she did the same, still watching me.

“Okay,” she said, and smiled. “Now it’s a party.”

* * * 

“Just text him. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

Jenn shook her head, blushing. “I can’t! It’s too weird.”

“Oh, please.” Margaret reached across the couch, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it, then.”

“Don’t!” Jenn shrieked, lunging at her to get it back. “Oh, my God, Margaret, if you do that I swear I’ll—”

“—thank me forever for hooking you up with the guy you’re crazy about? You’re welcome.” She started typing on the phone with one hand while batting Jenn away with the other. “There. It’s done. Now we wait.”

“I hate you,” Jenn said, but she was grinning, her face flushed. She’d had two drinks, by my count, since I’d arrived.

“Maybe,” Margaret told her. “But when he shows up, you’ll love me.”

The He in question was Chris McMichaels, who apparently my best friend had been madly in love with for ages, although she’d never mentioned it to me. Margaret, however, knew that he sat behind Jenn in World History, often asked her if she could spare paper or a pen, and had recently broken up with his longtime girlfriend, Hannah Riggsbee, leaving him, in Margaret’s words, “ripe for the picking.”

“He probably thinks I’m crazy,” Jenn moaned, putting her head in her hands. “Texting him on a Friday night.”

“If he didn’t want to hear from you, he wouldn’t have given you his number,” Margaret said, topping off each of their glasses.

“That was for a group project!”

Margaret waved her hand. “Details.”

Just then, the phone buzzed. Jenn went for it, but Margaret got there first, scanning the screen. “Well, look at this. He’s around and says he’ll stop by with some friends.”

“What?”
Jenn shrieked—the sound was shrill, grating—grabbing the phone. She read the text, then looked up, eyes wide. “You told him we were drinking?”

“
You
did,” Margaret said. “It’s a party, right?”

“Oh, my God.” Jenn grabbed my arm. “Chris McMichaels may be coming over here? To
my house
? I don’t know if I can handle this.”

“Of course you can. I’ll make another round.”

With that, Margaret picked up the empty pitcher and turned on her heel, going back into the kitchen. Finally, it was just the three of us.

“Jenn,” I said as she took another sip, “are you sure about this?”

“About what?”

I glanced at Meredith, who looked as hesitant as I felt. “I mean, come on. You don’t drink. And now you have guys coming over?”

She turned to look at me, annoyed. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

“Me?” I said. “You’re the one acting weird.”

“I’m having
fun
, Sydney. It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m your best friend, remember?”

“Then why are you being such a buzzkill?” She shook her head, sighing. “Honestly, I’m shocked. With your history, I figured you’d be the last person to be so judgy.”

Across the couch, Meredith’s eyes widened. I forced myself to take a breath before I said, “My history?”

“Your brother,” she said, her voice flat. From the kitchen, the blender began whirring. “I mean, I get it. Maybe you think that if I drink, I’ll end up in jail, too? But I won’t. So just calm down, okay? Have your drink.
Relax.
”

I didn’t even know what to say to this. She was like a stranger, but with the familiar features and mannerisms I knew as well as my own. I lowered my voice, then said, “I can’t believe you just brought Peyton into this.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, calm down. It’s not like it’s some big secret. Margaret already knows.”

Margaret walked into the room, the blender pitcher in her hand. “Margaret knows what?”

“Nothing,” I said, giving Jenn a hard look. “Never mind.”

The next half hour was consumed by Margaret giving Jenn what she called “the express makeover,” which consisted of putting on a more low-cut shirt, adding some jewelry, and layering on several coats of mascara. Margaret changed as well, into a dress she’d packed in her overnight bag. Clearly, she’d been anticipating a wardrobe transition, unlike the rest of us. Meanwhile, they both continued downing drinks, getting more and more sloppy. On the upside, neither noticed that Meredith and I had switched to water. At nine thirty, about when the guys were expected, Meredith bailed.

“Party pooper!” Margaret called out from the kitchen, where she was “giving needed volume” to Jenn’s hair, a practice that apparently required clouds of hair spray.

“Buzzkill!” Jenn chimed in.

“I have a meet tomorrow afternoon,” Meredith said quietly to me, like I was the one who needed a reason. “And this . . . is weird.”

“Seconded,” I said, holding up my water.

She held hers against it, then smiled. “Are you staying the night?”

“I don’t really want to leave her here like this.”

Meredith glanced back at the kitchen, where Jenn, I noticed, was suddenly looking a little queasy. Uh-oh. “You’re a good friend, Sydney.”

“So are you.” I reached forward, giving her a hug. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

She waved toward the kitchen, but only Margaret waved back. Once the door was shut behind her, I went to check on Jenn.

“You okay?” I asked her. “You don’t look so good.”

“She’s fine. She just needs to eat something,” Margaret said, although I saw Jenn wince, hearing this. “Let’s order pizza. What’s the number for that place you like, Jenn?”

“They don’t deliver,” Jenn mumbled, then got up off the bar stool, putting out a hand to steady herself. “I’m . . . I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

She made her way across the room, using the wall for support. Margaret watched her go, then took a sip of her drink. “She’ll be fine,” she told me. “A quick puke is like hitting the reset button.”

I watched as she picked up a compact, looking at her own face. Then I said, “She doesn’t drink, just so you know.”

“Her empty glass says otherwise,” she replied, scooping out a bit of gloss on her fingertip. She ran it across her lips, then looked at me. “Look, when I showed up with the rum, she wasn’t exactly protesting.”

“She probably just wanted to impress you.”

“You can read her mind now?”

“I’m her best friend. I’ve known her since we were in preschool.”

“Well, then you’re aware that she’s a girl who can make her own choices,” she said, shutting the compact with a click. “Go check on her, will you? I’m going to order some food so we have something here for the guys when they come.”

She then picked up her phone, indicating the conversation was over. I could feel my temper rising as I walked down the hallway to the powder room, inside which I could hear Jenn retching. I knocked lightly on the door, then pushed it open. “Hey. It’s me.”

Jenn was huddled over the toilet, resting her head on one arm. She looked awfully pale, and the room smelled strongly of coconut. Ugh. “I’m dying,” she moaned. “I’m going to die on my birthday. Which is really symmetrical, but unfortunate.”

I smiled. This was my Jenn. “You’re not dying. You’re just drunk.”

“I feel awful.” She turned to look at me. Damp strands of hair stuck to her forehead. So much for the added volume. “Do you hate me?”

“Of course not.” I picked up the hand towel from next to the sink, then soaked it in cold water. “Why would I?”

“Because I brought up Peyton. And made you drink.”

“You didn’t make me do anything.” I handed her the towel. “Put this on your face. It’ll help.”

She did, and I slid down to sit against the door, my knees to my chest.

“You don’t like Margaret,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t know her,” I replied, sidestepping it anyway.

“She’s really nice, Syd, I swear! And
so
funny! And, you know, not from here. She doesn’t see me the way everyone else does. She thinks I
could
date Chris McMichaels. And drink piña coladas. And . . . be different. You know?”

I nodded. I did understand, in my own way. Not the boy or drinking part, but the clean slate that came with a new friend. “I miss you,” I said, feeling bad about even thinking this while I was with her.

“I miss you, too.” She looked at me again. “Will you stay tonight? I know you weren’t planning to.”

“Sure,” I said. “Let me just make sure it’s okay.”

My mom answered on the second ring, and she sounded upset. At first, I thought this might be because I was calling so close to curfew and she assumed I was angling for an extension. But I found out soon enough that, once again, it had nothing to do with me.

“You may as well,” she said, once I asked if I could stay. “Since we’re not going to Lincoln tomorrow.”

I blinked, surprised. “We’re not?”

Silence. Then, “Your brother apparently has had his visiting privileges rescinded. Of course, I can’t find out
why
, despite multiple efforts to contact the director of the prison.”

She said this like prison was high school and contacting the office could fix anything. Not for the first time, I wondered if my mother really understood where Peyton was.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I know you were looking forward to that.”

“I was.” She sounded so defeated. I hadn’t thought anything could be worse than her being sad. This whole experience: it just kept teaching. After a moment, she rallied, saying, “Tell Jenn happy birthday, and I’ll see you in the morning. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Back in the bathroom, Jenn was looking slightly better, with a little color creeping into her cheeks. She still wasn’t ready to be too far from the toilet, however, so I went to fill Margaret in on what was going on. I was almost to the kitchen when I heard voices and realized the guys had arrived. They were gathered around the island, and Margaret, as she poured them drinks. She’d taken off her shoes and added bright red lipstick since I’d seen her last. When she saw me, she smiled like we were best friends.