Tell Me Something Real (22 page)

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.

Adrienne ditches me as soon as we walk into school, but not before giving me a hug and slipping the car keys into my hand. Her backpack bulges with paper and art supplies. A glittered piece of construction paper, caught in the zipper, sparkles in the sunlight as she walks down the hall with determined steps.

Mrs. Albright gives me an encouraging nod as I climb the stairs to the piano. Annie Kilsgaard can't take her eyes off me, and as soon as Suzie Hendricks sits down, she whispers into her ear.

I imagine them murmuring through the winds, then the strings. A Greek chorus of gossip. I close the piano's lid and then my eyes. I imagined this in the halls, in science, and in math, but not in here, not in the same room as the instruments, as Mrs. Albright. I feel the comfort of the car keys, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal, as I rise from the bench and rush out the door.

I round the corner and find Adrienne taping a sign to the wall. In between posters announcing the first meetings of the debate team, yearbook, and drama, I spot her elaborate poster that reads,
ZACH ROSSMAN GAVE ME GONORRHEA
. She filled every inch of empty space with similar signs, some collaged, some painted, all profane, and all about Zach.

ZACH ROSSMAN CAN'T GET IT UP

ZACH ROSSMAN SODOMIZES LIVESTOCK

ZACH ROSSMAN COULDN'T GET LAID IN A WHOREHOUSE

I tug on her backpack. “Come on, take these down before you get caught.”

“I don't care,” she says, pointing to the door across the hall. “I want Zach to come out of biology and see my masterpieces. That should teach him to keep his mouth shut and leave me alone.”

Before I respond, I hear footsteps.

“Both of you, go to Dr. Whelan's office. If you don't, I'll make sure you're suspended. Is that clear?”

I turn to find Mrs. Hacker, Adrienne's English teacher, standing behind us. Of all the teachers, she has to be the one to find us? She busts students for sport.

“
Now
.” She folds her arms across her modest chest.

Adrienne gives her a scathing look before turning to me. “Sorry,” she whispers.

I'm glad she doesn't have to go alone. Maybe I can keep her calm, save her from suspension.

The guidance counselor's name is printed on a plaque,
one large capital letter followed by smaller capital letters, the same lettering as on Dad's business cards.
DR. DONNA WHELAN
.

Her door is open, but we sit in the corner. Adrienne slumps next to me and sketches another defaming sign. I see Dr. Whelan, but she doesn't see us. I don't know much about her. She started last year. She came from New Mexico, and I think she looks a little like a cactus. Plump, with enough water to survive a drought. I watch as she picks up her misting bottle and sprays water on ancient, distorted orchids, some beyond blooming, which line the sill of the blazing windows.

Adrienne mutters “bitch” when Mrs. Hacker appears. She is the self-proclaimed savior of our school. She fixates on a student, and then, once or twice a semester, she schedules urgent meetings with the school counselor and principal to discuss how the disturbed student is on the brink of some emotional break.

Everyone knows the story of how years earlier, Mrs. Hacker spotted warning signs in a reckless, introverted boy who wore a uniform of Toughskins jeans and Hanes T-shirts, each with a philosopher's name scrawled on the shirt with a permanent marker. It's school legend. When he wore his Nietzsche shirt all week, the English teacher phoned his parents and asked how things were at home. After a string of events, long altered by time and embellishment, the student was found ready to dive off the roof of his father's office building. Since then, Mrs. Hacker has
had a deep, one-sided connection with the troubled youth of our school.

Clearly, Adrienne and I are the newly ordained problem students.

Mrs. Hacker huffs past us and twitches into the counselor's office, hands fluttering about her body, patting her hair, and smoothing her skirt. She looks like the nervous Chihuahua that lives on our block.