The Ruining (10 page)

“THE pINk ONE,” announced Zoe.
“Don’t be a goof. There are at least seven pink ones,” I
informed her. “Come on, narrow it down for me.” After a few
minutes of arguing with Zoe about something as banal as what
dress she’d wear to the dinner party, I felt much calmer. Zoe
brought me back to earth.
“That one!” she shouted, pointing at an outfit I was all too
familiar with—I’d seen the frilly pink number in her Halloween
pictures from last year. It had blue and purple sashes woven
through and silver sparkles scattered across.
“Zoe, that’s a costume,” I said. “You need to pick a nice
dress for Mommy and Daddy’s visitors.”
“THAT ONE,” Zoe said stubbornly. I weighed my options.
The Oswalds were due to arrive any minute, and I still hadn’t
changed. I could stay here and duke it out with Zoe, or I could
put her in a costume everyone would probably think was cute
anyway, and I could go down and get myself ready. I chose
the latter.
But I also didn’t really get what the big deal was. I knew
the Cohens were from a different world—a world in which
there were social rules and dress codes I’d never dealt with
in real life—but it all seemed a little excessive for a friendly
dinner with the neighbors. Libby had been obsessing over
the menu all week, and she’d wound up ordering a bunch of food from their favorite Italian restaurant. That morning before I’d gone to school, she’d made me help her polish the good silverware and rinse their wedding china. She’d bought new candles for the candlesticks, which she scrubbed to a shine. She’d thought about hiring someone to help serve, but changed her mind when I assured her I’d be there to help out with whatever she needed. It seemed so elaborate. It seemed
really weird.
Then again, what did I know about it? I grew up in Detroit.
Maybe this was totally normal for Belvedere Island. And anyway, I admired her desire for perfection. When Libby did something, she did it 110 percent right. And maybe that was the way
to achieve what she had. I rooted through my chest of drawers
in a quest for an outfit that would please her. Finally I settled
on a simple black pencil skirt, a red silk blouse, and ballet flats.
I pulled my hair up in a ponytail, added lip gloss, and turned
to Zoe for approval. She’d been sitting on the edge of my bed
playing with my lipsticks while I chose an outfit.
“What do you think? Pretty?”
“Pwetty,” she confirmed, her mouth covered in RahRah
Raspberry. I hastily wiped off her lipstick, and we hurried
downstairs just as the doorbell rang.
“Daddy!” shouted Zoe, running down the stairs to hug
Walker, who wore a suit jacket with his khakis.
“Bean!” he greeted her back, scooping her up in his arms.
Libby glanced at Zoe and me, and her face hardened into a
disapproving line.
“You couldn’t be bothered to get her properly dressed?” she wanted to know. I didn’t have time to answer, because she was already opening the door. A feeling of dread—and a little
resentment—overwhelmed me.
“Don’t worry,” Walker whispered with a tense smile, patting me on the shoulder. Zoe smiled down from his other arm.
“She just gets a little stressed out when she entertains.” The
Oswalds were all wearing jeans. I watched as Mrs. Oswald took
in Libby’s pristine white pants, her black, off-the shoulder top,
and her strand of pearls.
“Oh my,” said Mrs. Oswald carefully after we’d exchanged
greetings. “I feel terrible that we’re so underdressed! We were
expecting a patio grill-out.”
“I changed my mind,” Libby said with a bright smile. “I
wanted to make up for my self-imposed solitary confinement
of the past couple months.” The adults all chuckled politely.
“Anyway, you couldn’t help but look fabulous,” Libby added.
It wasn’t much of an exaggeration: for fifty or so, Mrs. Oswald
looked healthy and fit, and her naturally pretty face was tanned
and smooth. She and her husband seemed to share their son’s
interest in the outdoors. The family looked like a poster for the
active Californian lifestyle.
“What can I get you to drink?” Walker asked. “Scotch? Wine?” “I’ll have some red, if you have it,” said Mrs. Oswald. “And
scotch for Terry, neat.”
“I believe you kids already know each other, is that right?”
Mr. Oswald was asking with a friendly smile.
“Annie,” Libby interrupted, before I had a chance to
respond, “why don’t you show Owen the entertainment room. Maybe you kids can shoot some pool while we wait for dinner to heat?” I nodded, stinging from it. Libby had sounded so patronizing; but then, apparently we weren’t really friends. Her
tone was, I supposed, appropriate for an employer. “Annie!” Libby said sharply as we headed off. “Aren’t you
forgetting someone?”
“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “Zoe, come on, hon. Let’s go
downstairs.”
“Zoe just takes to Annie so well,” Libby said as we moved
from the room. For my part, I tried to act composed with Owen
walking behind me. Wasn’t I technically off-duty right now?
Why was she insisting I watch Zoe? I’d thought I was attending
this dinner not as a babysitter, but as a guest.
“She always make you work all evening?” Owen asked, giving voice to my fears.
“No, not usually. Hey, what about air hockey?” I asked
quickly, eager to change the subject. I couldn’t defend something I didn’t understand myself. And I didn’t really want to get
into touchy territory with him again. For some reason, being
with Owen triggered this feeling I sometimes got, when someone challenged me about something I believed without being
able to articulate why. It had happened only a few times in the
past, and when it did, I wound up feeling cornered, like there
was no way out. Sometimes it made me uncharacteristically
bumbling and inarticulate. I hated that feeling of stammering,
searching for words. I desperately wanted to avoid feeling flustered like that again.
“Foosball?” he suggested.
“Sure.” I was historically terrible at foosball, but I had
vowed to be agreeable. To show Owen a different side of me.
“Zoe, you and me on a team, okay? I’ll work one handle, you
work the other.” I moved a chair over to the table so Zoe could
stand on it. She turned out to have a pretty intense competitive streak for a threeyear-old, judging by how excited she got
when Owen let her score. But he wasn’t one to let anyone win,
not even a toddler. After losing four games in a row, games in
which the high scorer for our team was Zoe, I knew I couldn’t
avoid it anymore.
“What’s up, Phillips?” he teased. “Can’t handle it?” “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about,”
I said, unable to meet his eyes.
“Oh, sure.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable, and I was
willing to bet anything he’d been hoping we could just skate
right past the elephant in the room.
“Zo, how about some cartoons?”
“Dora?” she asked hopefully.
“Sure thing.” I set her up on the sofa, wrapping her in an
afghan, and popped in her favorite Dora DVD. Within seconds,
she was transfixed. “She never gets tired of it,” I told Owen. It’s
kind of amazing.” There was only one sofa in the basement,
an anomaly in an otherwise immaculately decorated house.
Thankfully, it was a large one. Our thighs would not be brushing anytime soon. Zoe was curled up on one end, and I settled
in the middle next to her. She wormed her feet under my legs
absentmindedly. Owen was seated in the opposite corner with
an expression of unmasked dread.
“Relax,” I told him. “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to apolo
gize for the other day.”
“Oh,” he said, visibly relieved. “No need to apologize. Seriously. It wasn’t my place to say anything about the Cohens.
And it looks like I was wrong, anyway—they seem great.” “They are,” I agreed. “But I really want to say this. I assumed
you were just some kind of lazy waste of space, like some of
the guys I knew back where I’m from. They were like leeches.
They’d just suck their parents’ money away until they’d drained
them. And then they’d keep living in their parents’ houses, getting fat and collecting unemployment.”
“Wow,” he said. “So in your head, I’m a fat, lazy leech.” “You weren’t there yet,” I laughed. “But you were well on
your way.”
“Then I guess you do owe me an apology, for you are
sorely mistaken.” When I found the courage to glance at his
face, I realized he was more amused than anything else, thank
god.
“I’m really sorry,” I told him. “I’m sorry for assuming I knew
who you were without actually bothering to get to know you.
And I’m sorry for judging you. God.” I shook my head. “I, of all
people, am in no place to judge. And I’m not usually like that.” “You don’t need to explain.”
“No, really. I’ve just been feeling a little overwhelmed. But
I feel terrible. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
“Apology accepted,” Owen said softly, holding my gaze.
“And if you want to make it up to me, that’s fine too.” “Ew,” I said.
“‘Ew’ wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. However, I was
thinking you could repay your debt with brownies or other
delicious edibles. I don’t know what you thought I meant. . . .” I felt my face turning beet red for the millionth time since I’d
moved here, and Owen burst out laughing. “I know,” I said. “I
know. It would almost be better to have a permanent sunburn.” “It’s cute,” he replied. “I wouldn’t change it.” I bit my lip and
turned away from him, suddenly shy. I’d never been good at
flirting . . . if that’s what he was doing.
“Zo, how’s Dora?” I asked, eager to fill the silence. But Zoe
ignored me. She wasn’t listening to our conversation at all; she
was watching Dora and Boots swing from a rope into a lagoon. “Oh, to be three and blissfully unaware,” Owen remarked. I
smiled at him. There was something about him that was just so
open and honest. It put me at ease the way no one had—not
that I had a lot of experiences to hold it up against. “I don’t know how blissful. She had a doozy of a nightmare
last night. It was sort of scary.”
“Monsters? Ghosts? What do toddlers dream about anyway?
They can barely form full sentences.”
“Mommy went away,” Zoe said offhandedly, her attention
still focused on the screen.
“What?” Owen started to say something else, but I shook
my head sharply, and he clamped his mouth shut.
“Nothing, nothing,” I said, as the Dora credits started rolling. Zoe hummed along with the theme song, but soon her
humming turned to Rockabye Baby, as it always seemed to. “Cwadle and all,” she sang under her breath.
“That’s enough, little lady,” I said mock sternly, reaching
over to tickle her armpits. She squealed, laughing so hard she
rolled off the sofa.
“No, NO!” she shrieked happily as I pretended to chase
after her. Finally I collapsed on the floor melodramatically,
allowing her to tickle me back.
“I forfeit,” I laughed. “Forfeit, I say!” But she kept at it,
laughing happily until Owen stepped in, grabbing her by the
armpits and spinning her in the air.
“Unhand the lady,” he commanded her, tossing her finally
onto the couch where she lay, giggling still but more quietly now, as though she were losing steam. While Zoe was
sprawled out on the couch, I was sprawled out on the floor.
Owen lay down next to me on the carpet, his body far enough
from mine that we weren’t touching, but close enough for me
to feel his heat.
“Zoes, how about a game of Simon Says?” I suggested once
I caught my breath, again desperately trying to ignore the feeling of Owen’s body just inches from mine.
“Annie,” Owen cut in, “there’s something—” But then the
familiar squeak of the basement door sounded from above us,
and Walker shouted down, “Come ’n’ get your grub!” Zoe let
out a happy shriek and dashed up the stairs. I stood up and ran
after her, making sure she didn’t fall.
“Seems like she’s your number-one fan, Mr. C.,” said Owen
as Walker scooped up Zoe and placed her on his shoulders. “She’s my little buddy,” he replied. “Best pal, this little gal. Right here.” Owen flashed me a smile and, when Walker’s back was turned, reached behind him for my hand, helping me up the last few stairs. Was he chivalrous? Was he some kind of lady-killer? Or—the possibility hardly seemed possible—did he like me? What had he been about to tell me? He’d sounded so . . . serious. So sad. I forced the questions out of my head when I realized one important fact: it didn’t matter. Right in that moment, he was holding my hand. And that was all that mattered. He gripped it a few seconds longer than necessary and gave it a little squeeze before letting it drop. My heart felt like it was about to explode. It was beating so forcefully I was sure
everyone in the house could hear it.
Dinner raced by after that. Every time I took a bite of
mashed potatoes or reached for my water glass, Owen was
there to distract me: His hand, reaching for the serving knife.
His eyes, meeting mine over the table. His voice, his grin, his
smell. It was like my senses were on overload. While we were
at that table, Owen was everywhere. He enveloped me in a
warm, protective shield. He wasn’t mad at me; not even close.
There was still a chance.
I was so distracted by the dynamic between Owen and me
that I didn’t even notice Libby’s cold silence through the meal.
I finally recognized that something was amiss when she stood
up from the table halfway through dessert, claiming she had
a splitting headache and needed to lie down. But it still didn’t
seem all that unusual. Maybe it should have, I don’t know, but
that’s what happens when you start to fall in love. Love blinds you to everything. All the warning signs you should see, all the details you’d never normally miss—they give way to the only thing you really want to see: his face. And the warnings, the things you would have perked up to in the past? You don’t hear them, because they’re not the sound of his voice. Love is a very beautiful, very dangerous thing.

suNdAy wAs My dAy OFF, but I had way too much homework to actually take a day off. By the time I woke up at ten A.M., got dressed, and wandered downstairs, Walker, Libby, Zoe, and Jackson were already gone. Libby had left a note for me on the kitchen island. “Back around 4,” it read, without the usual details or smiley face.

It was good that they were gone, though. I had a lot of homework to finish, and Owen and I had made tentative plans to hang out that night. We’d seen each other only a few times since he and his parents had come over for dinner, but those few times were enough to make it hard to concentrate on anything else. And I had a critical essay due the following week in my lit class. To my surprise, the feminist unit had quickly become my favorite. As a whole, the class was far and away more interesting than the Elements of Design class I was now only taking because I felt terrible letting Libby down.

The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories was really good so far, but I’d only just started reading The Yellow Wallpaper itself, and that was supposed to be the basis for my essay. We’d been talking about a period of female oppression in which women were sent to asylums for pretty much any reason at all—for being “slutty,” even if they were victims of rape; for having anxiety; for being troublesome—and this story was supposed to illustrate the feminine psyche being driven mad. We’d talked a lot in class about mental illness as a product of the era and environment rather than chemical imbalance, and how it was used as an excuse to control women who bothered to speak up or act in a manner that was considered rebellious.

The Yellow Wallpaper, my professor said, was interesting because it was written by one woman who was nearly driven mad by the real-life advice of the doctor who was treating her. Then when she wrote the story—about a woman whose husband prevents her from working and encourages isolation and bed rest as a cure for depression/nerves—it changed the way that doctor treated his patients from then on. So in her own way, this writer made huge strides for women.

I was really into the background—I was interested in literary theory as a whole—and I was psyched to sit out on the upper balcony of the Cohens’ house, with its gorgeous view of the Pacific, and drink iced tea and read the story. What I wasn’t prepared for was how creepy the story would be.

Half an hour in, I was sufficiently freaked out. The heroine in the story had begun to see a creeping woman behind the pattern of the wallpaper. By the end of the story, I was so jittery it may as well have been midnight and not midday. I actually missed Zoe’s normalizing—if slightly whiny—presence. The woman in the story had actually become convinced that she was the woman trapped in the wallpaper. She crept around the room, dragging her shoulder against the wallpaper, and she tore the paper off the wall in shreds. When her husband finally found her, just a day from leaving the awful prison of the room, she’d already gone completely crazy. She’d turned into a literal creeper. It almost made me grateful for the lack of privacy in my own room.

Just as I was reaching the end, my cell phone rang. Hoping for Owen, my heart leaped; ever since the dinner party, we’d been back on texting terms. But a call would have been a new thing. I looked eagerly at the name lighting up the display: Libby Cohen.

“Hey, Libby,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment. “I need you to do something for me,” she said without bothering with a greeting. “Turn on the oven to three-fifty and throw in a pot roast, okay? The meat and vegetables are in the fridge and you can just grab a can of stewed tomatoes from the pantry. It shouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes.” I knew it would take longer, but that wasn’t my concern.
“Will you be home to take it out?” I asked.
“Why, will you not?”
“I’d planned to meet Owen at—”
Libby sighed loudly from the other end. “Fine. Just hook up