The Good Goodbye (20 page)

“Denise,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“I’m draining some fluid. Don’t worry. This is painless.”

She’s being kind. Arden can’t feel anything, can she? I can’t see what Denise is doing. I don’t want to. I stand back with Theo. At last she straightens. She is holding a small plastic bag and I avert my eyes. I suddenly feel nauseated. Me, who once gutted a pig. “I’ll be right back,” she says, but I don’t want her to leave. What if something happens? “I need to enter these orders into the computer system.”

“Then what?”

“We should know something soon, ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”

“Are you coming back?”

Denise has her hand on the curtain. “Absolutely. And Dr. Morris is on her way.”

The curtain swishes shut behind her.

Theo puts his arm around me.

“We’re here,” I tell Arden.

“We’re right here,” Theo says softly.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t make the slightest sound.

When Arden was two, she’d tumbled into a friend’s swimming pool during a family barbecue. No one noticed until another child came running. The teenager who was supposed to be watching Arden had gotten distracted, running after a beach ball that had rolled into the neighbor’s yard. I turned from where I stood with Theo and the other parents and through the metal bars of the fence surrounding the pool saw my daughter, completely submerged with just her fingertips showing.

I couldn’t get around the fence quickly enough. I couldn’t get to Arden. She had been the one in trouble, but I had been the one shrieking the words.

Help me.

Arden

SMOKE CRAWLS DOWN
my throat.
Fire!
I sit bolt upright, coughing. Then everything swims into focus. I’m in my dorm room, in my bed. I’m safe.

I fall back against my pillow and wait for my heart to stop pounding.

A rainbow of filmy scarves crisscrosses the ceiling, hiding the blackened tiles.
We should just replace them,
I’d said, worried about our damage deposit.
Oh, sure,
Rory had replied.
That’ll happen. We can drive to the building supply store during lunch.
She’d yanked open a dresser drawer and pulled out a handful of bright silk—magenta, gold, turquoise, chartreuse, cornflower blue.
We’ll tell the RA we’re going for the Buddhist temple effect.
Yeah, if Buddhists were into Hermès. We didn’t have thumbtacks so we used tape. In the middle of the night, I’d yelped when one came loose and floated down, tickling my arm. Rory hadn’t even rolled over. I thought I knew her better than anyone, but living with her has revealed a few things. Like how she keeps the bookshelf above her bed empty, piling all her textbooks on the floor beneath her bed. Like how she has to sleep on her side facing the door and startles awake every time someone walks past.
At least I don’t snore,
Rory retorted. But she does that, too, a little.

One second the curtains were there; the next second they were gone. It had been so scary. The shrieking of the smoke detector had made me want to run from the room. Rory had just curled up in a ball, useless. I’d been furious with her until I saw her face.

I look over at her, peacefully sleeping. Second night in a row she’s stayed home. In class yesterday, Hunter had beckoned me over to sit beside him and I had slid into the seat feeling claimed while Rory sat on the other side, doodling in her notebook.
Is this how it happens?

At the library, I pull down book after book from the shelves. Professor Lee wanted us to consult real sources, not just online stuff. I was planning to write about Giotto, but obviously I can’t write two papers on him. As I reach up to slot a book back into place, smoke wafts toward me. Me, or my clothes? I pull out a length of hair and sniff.

Lunch?
Rory texts, and I bundle books into my backpack. She’s saved me a seat across from her and Hunter, and beside D.D. Rory flashes me a quick smile as I set down my tray, but it’s not convincing. It doesn’t reach inside her.

“Hey,” Hunter says. “We were just talking about you.”

My face flames. I duck my head and let my hair fall forward.
Why do you even hang out with Hunter?
I’d asked Rory, because he’s so not her type. Usually, she dates rich jocks with huge biceps who think beer is a food group. She’d looked thoughtful before replying.
I’ve never dated a baseball player before.
He’s just an experiment to her. Why can’t he see that?

“Tell us the truth. You’re the one who aced Lee’s quiz, aren’t you?” Professor Lee had stood in front of the classroom, chiding us.
I don’t grade on a curve, people,
she’d said.
So you’d better knuckle down.
“Come on, don’t be shy.”

Don’t be shy,
Aunt Gabrielle always tells me.
You have to look people in the eye. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re being rude.
I try to be as brave as Rory, who marches up to strangers and boldly extends her hand. They always smile back.

“Wasn’t me.” I’d stared at the computer screen, confused. How could I have missed three questions? I thought I knew the material.

“Huh. Must be the emo girl who sits in the front row.” He sits back and slings his arm around Rory’s shoulders. She doesn’t react, just keeps texting. “Who knows?” she says. “It’s a big class. Could be anyone.”

She’s being so quiet.
Doing it isn’t the same as getting along.
Maybe she’s tired of Hunter. Maybe he’s realizing they don’t have as much in common as maybe he and I do.

People at the table behind us are talking loudly.

“…need to hear this song I just found. It’s a band that’s performing next week.”

“Bathtub Mannequins?”

“Yeah. They’re so sick.”

“I don’t know. I think they’re weird.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot.”

“Oh, okay. Glad everyone is in such a friendly mood today.”

“Do you guys have tickets?”

“No, I’m going by the auditorium after lunch.”

“They’re probably sold out.”

“Really? I don’t think they’re even that big of a name.”

“Every small, strange band is a big name here.”

I sneak a peek at Hunter. He’s holding his sandwich and leaning forward to make his point. He’d felt it, too, that moment walking back from the sports center—hadn’t he? He catches me looking and grins. My heart beats faster.

“Hey, Arden?” D.D. says. “You going to eat those?” She points to the fries on my plate and I shake my head. She plucks a fry free and dips it in the pond of ketchup I’d squeezed onto my plate, which is gross. It feels invasive. She brings a code with her I can’t decipher. She makes me feel awkward and slow. She’s the college version of Mackenzie, only with bright pink hair.

Rory’s right. I don’t have many pills left.
Quit
is at the very top of my list. I’m not ready, though. Maybe in a month, maybe after finals. I’ve texted the guy I used to get my stuff from, a junior from the boys’ school whose parents are plastic surgeons.
Can you mail a refill?
He’d texted right back.
Sure except it’s a FELONY.
I’d stared at my phone. So this was where he drew the line? Like selling prescription meds wasn’t?
It’ll b ok,
I texted, but it’s been four days and I still haven’t heard back.

Rory and Hunter go one way, and D.D. and I head back to the dorm. I watch their two receding figures, trying to decide if he’s leaning in to her or the other way around, then turn to D.D. Why is she spending so much time with Rory and me? Why doesn’t she find someone else to hang around with? “How come I haven’t seen Whitney lately?” Shouldn’t D.D. be spending time with her own roommate instead of trying to steal mine?

She gives me a look that tells me she knows why I’m asking. “Ask her.”

D.D. could hook me up. Rory says she can get her hands on anything, but I don’t trust D.D. I don’t know why, but I don’t. Still, I ask, “Can you get me some Adderall?”

She doesn’t even look at me, but she’s smiling. “How many?”

“Thirty.” Thirty will carry me to Thanksgiving break.

“Okay, sure. No problem.”

“How much?”

A tick of time. “Twenty.”

“Twenty
each
?” I stare at her, but she’s got her profile to me. “I used to pay ten.”

“Because you were fucking your dealer?”

I want to whirl around and stomp off in a different direction. I want to be anywhere but right here, walking down the sidewalk with this repulsive girl. But I stop myself. I won’t let her see she’s reached me. “I can’t do twenty.” Six hundred dollars. I don’t have anywhere near that kind of money. I could work every day until Thanksgiving and I wouldn’t come close to clearing that much. “Can’t you cut me a break?”

“Sorry
.
”

Which tells me we’re not friends. Which tells me we’ll never be friends. Not that I was hoping. “I guess Rory was wrong about you.”

She glances at me now. Her gray eyes are wide-spaced. They make her look so innocent. Flames flicker at the sides of her face. Her skin is glowing.
Listen,
she says.
I need to tell you something about Hunter.

Rory

DO NOT EVEN
think
about putting candles on my birthday cake. Don’t ask me to a bonfire at the beach, and you can just forget about ski lodges with their huge stone fireplaces. The two fireplaces in our house have to stay cold and empty. Sometimes, though, my parents light a fire when I’m not around. They put it out before I get back, but I can always tell. That ashy smell hits me the minute I walk in the door and makes my chest tighten so I can’t breathe. It’s because I got burned when I was little. Burned badly. Arden gave me her pink blanket later. A secret, because nobody knows she still slept with it; nobody knows I sleep with it now.

“Are you sure we’ll have time?” Arden stuffs books into her backpack. “The bus leaves at noon tomorrow.” She sounds so hopeful.

“The shop opens at ten,” I tell her, and she sighs.

She’s late for art class and she hasn’t brushed her hair. She hasn’t said a word about the fire. In the morning, on the way to class, I saw her blue towel—at least, the charred bits of her towel—draped forlornly on the bushes beneath our window.

I toss her a hairbrush and she catches it with both hands.

“You checked this place out?” She swipes quickly at her hair and drops the brush with a clatter on the dresser.

“Yup.”

She opens the door and gives me one last pleading look. “Cut it out, Arden. I want this.” I’ve wanted this for eight years, more than I’ve wanted anything. Even more than Harvard. The door closes behind her and I hear her trudging footsteps in the hall slowly fade away.

—

“I’m glad to see you decided to stick with it,” Chelsea Lee says to me after class, which pisses me off. It’s not about giving up. I’m not a quitter, anyone would tell you that. Quitters don’t get into size-zero jeans by spring break. Quitters don’t date Blake Henderson for four months, and quitters don’t get into Harvard.

“I’ve still got a week to decide,” I retort, and a corner of her mouth twitches up.

“Guess I’ve just been served. Come on. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, or whatever your favorite poison is.”

Freshmen don’t have coffee with professors. So there you go again—not a quitter.

The coffee shop’s warm and dark, with lots of quirky little tables and mismatched chairs. It smells of coffee and cinnamon and warm milk. We carry our drinks to a table by the window. She stirs sugar into her cup, pours in a splash of cream that spirals around the black surface before sinking down and going invisible. I tear open a package of sweetener and she hikes an eyebrow. “That stuff’s bad for you.”

“Everything’s bad for you.” I blow on the surface of my coffee before taking a sip.

“Nice ring. Unusual.”

I hold out my hand and study the engraved gold band. Same clunky style as when Bishop had been founded more than a hundred years ago, back when you sealed letters with blobs of molten wax and pressed the face of your ring down hard. All over the country there are Bishop women wearing this same exact ring. “My class ring.”

“The privileges of a private school.”

She makes it sound like a bad thing. “I earned this ring.”

“I’m sure you did.”

She can’t know. She can’t possibly know. I glance at her, but she’s sipping her coffee. “You did a great job in class today.” Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright. She looks happy. I like this version of her. It’s much better than the stern one who stands at the front of the classroom with her head cocked and her hands on her hips. That one reminds me too much of my mother. “You have a real eye, you know. Not many people do.”

She’d put up the slide and then, out of all the students waving their hands, called on me. I’d been reaching over to scribble something in Hunter’s notebook when I heard my name. She’d had to repeat the question and a few people laughed.
How do you think the painter used light to define this space?
I’d straightened in my seat, scanned the image on the screen, and then started talking. The words had just poured out. Hunter had leaned back to watch me, and some girl had turned around in her seat to stare at me. I’d hiked an eyebrow at her and she quickly turned back around, but how could I blame her, really? Girls like me don’t talk in class. That’s for the emo chick who sits slumped in the front row, chewing her fingernails and reeking of patchouli.

“My cousin’s the artist. Arden. She’s taking your class, too.” Arden’s the reason I’d signed up for the class in the first place. We’d been on her pontoon boat, rocking gently on the water, going through the catalog.
She’d
been going through the catalog, actually. I’d been lying on my back, trying to angle my stomach into the sun.
This one looks interesting,
she’d said, and I’d pushed myself up on one elbow to see.

“You don’t have to be an artist to be able to analyze a work of art,” she says.

It had felt amazing, talking so easily about the way a person’s eye followed the lights and darks in the fresco. How could I understand something like that without even trying? It’s not as though I’ve ever taken anything but the basic art classes at Bishop—jewelry-making, pottery—the ones I’d had to take in order to graduate. Still, who cares? It’s not like it matters. It won’t get me anywhere. It’s like being able to pitch Ping-Pong balls into Flower Mart buckets, each landing with a satisfying plop. All you got for it was a lame stuffed animal. “I’m going to law school. So I doubt I’ll be analyzing many works of art.”