The Weight of Zero (21 page)

I text back five smiley faces (a record for me) and look up at Michael. “We can go to the party if you want. My mom is coming in an hour.”

Despite living close by and having grown up with Robbie, Tyler still doesn't want to come, so we say good-bye to him on the front stoop, then grab our chairs and return them to the garage. Mr. Pitoscia is on his knees in front of the open refrigerator. Spread around Michael's father are bags of bread, plastic containers of mozzarella, pepperoni sticks and foil-wrapped trays. I can see the bottle of Baileys wedged way back on the lowest shelf of the fridge. Tony Pitoscia is building a firewall around it using the food by his knees.

I recognize that move. He's hiding the bottle.

Michael calls quickly to his dad, “Hey, just dropping off the chairs.” It's a definite alert of some sort. I glance at Michael. There are some red splotches on his neck, a telltale sign of discomfort.

Tony Pitoscia hops to his feet and slams the refrigerator door shut. “Mom said you were headed to Robbie's?” he asks.

“Just for an hour,” Michael answers.

“My mom will be here to get me,” I add, so Mr. Pitoscia doesn't have to worry about driving me home.

Michael seems flustered as we walk in the cold to Robbie's house. “That was weird, I know,” he says. “My dad…He and my mom don't really like to keep alcohol in the house anymore.” He looks at me, gauging my reaction.

I nod. Like I'm one to talk about abnormal behavior. And that's not even abnormal.

“If I tell you something,” Michael says, slowing his pace, “you can't tell anyone, okay?”

I want to say I have only one friend and she doesn't even live around here, but I keep that to myself.

“Michael, you really don't have to tell me anything. That's your family's business.”

“Well, I want to tell you,” he says, and stops walking. He takes one of my hands from the pockets of the Paoletti's Landscaping jacket and holds it in both his hands. “You're gonna be at my house, so you should know. Anthony might have…He
has
a drinking problem. He was going to Sacred Heart University last year and got kicked out in November for underage drinking. And then a couple of months ago, he got a DUI. That's why his friends are always picking him up. He can't drive anymore. And that's why my mother is kind of hyper about what he does on the weekends. So, he's got no license, no college, and he's doing landscaping work. Lost the full first-semester tuition, which was like over twenty grand. My parents are freaking out about it. He was on the lacrosse team. He was a good student.” Michael shakes his head. “There's nothing wrong with being a landscaper, but he was thinking about law school. Or teaching.”

“That really sucks,” I say.

“Tonight my dad was…he was hiding that bottle of liquor in the back of the fridge so Anthony doesn't see it. And they keep like five beers in the fridge just to sort of monitor whether he's drinking.” Still holding hands, Michael and I begin walking again. “It's so strange to think that this is my brother. None of us saw it coming.”

I'm not sure what to say. Part of me wants to help put it into perspective for him. Maybe something like, “If you think alcoholism is bad, try bipolar disorder!” Of course I'd never say anything of the sort. Michael will never know that about me. He probably just heard that I went through a depression or something last year. But I'm wondering,
is
being bipolar really worse than being an alcoholic? To be honest, they seem pretty balanced on the shit scale.

“I'm so sorry,” I say instead. “That's really sad.”

And I do know sad.

Michael lightly bumps my shoulder. “Sorry to be such a downer,” he says. “I just thought you should know.”

We're already at the place. We stop in front of a brightly lit colonial, a clone of Michael's house. A pounding bass beat leaks through the basement windows, and they must have a strobe light down there because it looks like an electrical storm is taking place.

“Do you know Robbie?” Michael asks.

I shake my head. He will soon learn I know no one. But that too can wait.

“He's a good kid,” Michael says. “He's one of the presidents of Model Congress. Math club, swim team. Wants to go to Yale.” Michael takes a deep breath. “But he loves to party. That's why Tyler didn't come tonight.”

Maybe Tyler had the right idea. I can hear screams and laughter coming from the basement. What if Riley and Olivia are here? What if they say stuff about me? My heart beats a faster rhythm.

“Let's just say hi and get out of here, okay?” Michael asks. “I'm not really into a party tonight.”

I nod, and my mouth goes dry as we walk up the concrete path to Robbie's front door. Michael's still holding my hand and I'm sure it's slick with sweat. Should I tell him that I don't drink? That it would fuck with the delicate balance that my Lamictal has just established? I'm at full strength now, Dr. McCallum's targeted two hundred fifty milligrams. I'm sure the two and a half tablets I took tonight are trapped in the bottom layer of sediment in my stomach, buried under the avalanche of Nonny cookies.

I take a quick glance at Michael and he smiles at me. With blatant adoration.
For me.
And it stops me in my tracks. Has anyone ever looked at me like that before? Besides Mom and Grandma? I squeeze Michael's hand, and then the front door is opening and somebody is yelling, “Yo! Pit Man!”

Inside the living room, there are maybe twenty kids. I don't recognize a soul and relax the tiniest bit. Michael introduces me to Robbie's parents, who say hello and continue with their anxious surveillance. Michael greets somebody else and then we head to the basement. The temperature and noise increase as we descend. It is packed down here and it's hard to identify anyone with the seizure-inducing strobe lights.

A burly redheaded guy comes up to Michael, and Michael introduces us. It's Robbie, the host, and he's holding a nuclear-blue-colored sports drink that he offers to Michael and then to me. Michael puts a hand up to decline and gives me a little headshake that translates to “Don't take it.” Robbie is hyper and loud, his movements sloppy, his laugh hyena-like—it's pretty clear he's drunk. Whatever he's drinking must be camouflaged in the Gatorade bottle. I take a quick look around the room. The lights are off except for the strobe light and strings of white Christmas lights that run the perimeter of the low ceiling. Kids are everywhere, playing Ping-Pong at one end of the room, sprawled on the two sofas and dancing in a corner that's furniture-free. I can feel the bass of the rap music vibrate in my bones. The people seem to be a cross section of high school achievers—athletes, honors kids, student government—who like to party. Almost everybody is drinking a brightly colored sports drink/cocktail.

Once Robbie lurches away, another boy, a non-drunk, Model Congress friend of Michael's, comes over to talk. That's when almost-friend Sabita Gupta walks past. Our eyes meet and a smile flashes across her face—the smile real, instant and unforced, with nothing evil or pitying behind it. It's the same smile from when we were kids. Sabita and I talk for about twenty minutes, catching up—her telling the truth, me not telling the truth—and then move on to the much more comfortable territory of schoolwork. Sabita is exactly how I remember her—always ready to chat about classes regardless of the setting. We take turns basically screaming into each other's ears about our history projects. She's blown away by Jane's story and thinks Michael and I have a guaranteed A.

“Mr. Oleck completely digs stuff like that,” she says, taking a small sip from her full, bright red Gatorade and then shuddering. “I hate vodka.” She tilts the bottle my way, but I shake my head.

“No thanks.”

She screws the cap back on and places the bottle on the floor. “Good move. It's like cherry Robitussin mixed with turpentine.”

The one time I almost freak is when I catch sight of a Red Sox cap on a tall, stocky, dark-haired kid not more than five feet from me. It's one of the kids from group—wrestling John. I lose track of the conversation between Michael, his friend, Sabita and some other girl and try to shrink into the shadows next to Michael. He misinterprets the move and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

What's the protocol outside the institutional walls of St. Anne's and school? Do group members acknowledge each other? I decide to ignore John, figuring that's the smart thing to do. But when Michael and I say our good-byes and make our way to the basement steps, John is parked right there. He puts out his hand for a high five and my heart stops beating.

Please, please, God. Don't let him say anything about seeing me on Monday.

Of course, the music has stopped briefly and Michael is sure to hear any exchange. “Hey, Catherine. How's it going?” is, blessedly, the only thing John says.

And instead of slapping his palm, I give it a little squeeze. The secret handshake of the St. Anne Society. He squeezes right back.

Michael and I wind up staying until ten minutes to midnight, and I am pumped when we walk outside. I have been a solid nine for at least three hours tonight. Participate in first high school party?
Check.
Not curled into the fetal position in a bathroom?
Check.
Not rocking myself in some remote corner?
Check.
Talk to seemingly nonjudgmental peers who didn't seem surprised that crazy Catherine Pulaski was in attendance?
Check.

Michael and I swing hands as we walk down the path to the sidewalk. In the light of a brilliant almost-full moon, I can see the Accord idling in Michael's driveway four houses away, the cold creating a trail of steam from the exhaust pipe. “My mom's here,” I say.

Michael stops walking. “Already?” He drops my hand and starts trotting backward into the dark abyss between Robbie's house and Robbie's next-door neighbor's. “Cath, come here a sec.” He waves me toward him as his feet crunch the leaves on the ground. “I want to show you something.”

I join him under a half-naked maple tree. We're now officially trespassers on private property.

“I lied,” he says, and shifts from foot to foot, smiling, expectant. Then he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me close, and it's thrilling. “So, w-was it okay that I called you my girlfriend tonight?”

“Absolutely.” I lift my chin to smile up at him.

“I can't believe it,” he says softly. “My girlfriend is Catherine Pulaski.” His obvious pride makes my heart dip into my reservoir of grief.
I don't want this to end.

“Can…can…I kiss you?” he asks softly, hijacking my attention. “C-c-can I?”

His boyhood stutter reprising itself makes something inside me melt. I nod and he places his warm hands on my jaw and neck. That alone feels delicious. He leans down, but our heads are tilted the same way and we bump noses. At the same time, we reverse direction and then reverse again, likes mimes doing a mirror act. We laugh, and it pushes down my sense of impending loss.

This time, Michael holds my head tenderly yet firmly in his hands. “You stay like that. I'll go this way,” he instructs with a little laugh. “Like I know what I'm doing.” And then his beautiful face is looming closer and his lips are touching mine.

And for someone who doesn't know what he's doing, it's a great freaking kiss.

I slide into the passenger seat of the Accord at four minutes past midnight. My lips feel warm and tingly, like the rest of my body. Mom is not quite so warm. In a clipped, almost clinical tone, she greets me with, “Bear with me, okay, Cath?” and clicks on the interior light of the car to probe my face with laser eyes. Her nostrils even flare as she takes a few investigatory sniffs for pot smoke. “Did you drink anything? Take anything?” she asks.

I don't answer immediately. I'm waving to Michael, who stands on the front stoop of his house, watching us. Watching
me.

The fury that Mom and her questions normally trigger in me is absent, and the scene doesn't culminate with one of my typical snarls. Because as Michael waves back, I feel magnanimous.

“No worries, Mom,” I say, still on my own personal cloud nine from both the kiss and my first successful social outing as a bipolarite. “There was alcohol, but I stayed away.” And I graciously add, “Michael doesn't drink either.”
Because his twenty-year-old brother might be an alcoholic.
I keep that last detail to myself.

After texting Kristal, I wait for Mom to pass out so I can complete the Friday-night transfer of my shoe box to Grandma's room for the weekend. I don't think it's safe to take the bottles out and line them up like I usually do. Mom is too much of a wild card tonight. Instead, I click on my phone and open my D-Day List.

Immediately, I feel a sense of peace. But I hate the first entry now. The L.V. part. It seems so cold and impersonal—the total opposite of Michael.

Michael is…brown eyes and warm hands and quick smiles and arms I want to dive into.

Before, he was just supposed to be my first and last connection, but now he's something more: my boyfriend.

Zero whispers that it's not real. That Michael doesn't know the real me.

I shake my head, clearing away those black thoughts for now.
It's okay.
He likes what he sees so far, and that's more than I could've ever hoped for.

I delete L.V. and type “1st/Last Connection.” Written out, it looks even more stupid than L.V. I delete it and type “Michael.” That's all the secret code I need.

Without turning on the light, I search for the Nonny cookie I know is on my night table and find it next to the propeller beanie Michael gave me. Mom loves these cookies too. Dealing with post-Catherine-at-party anxiety, she had me pop the lid off the cookie tin on the drive home.

I finish the cookie and lie back on my bed. It feels great tonight. Warm and cozy and sweetly scented from the fabric softener Mom uses. I click my phone to refresh the Notes page. In the month since I started the list, it's grown to a whopping five entries. I read them for the millionth time:

And now I type in:

Kristal had texted a few minutes ago to see if I wanted to sleep over after Friday's group. I responded yes with a smiley face and three exclamation points without asking Mom. There was no way I was going to request permission tonight. The poor woman was still wrapping her head around the idea of her unbalanced daughter at an honest-to-goodness high school party. And also, I'm anticipating a battle about the sleepover. I haven't slept over at someone's house since eighth grade. I doubt Mom will be on board given she has never met Kristal's parents or seen her house.

In savvy preparation for the impending debate, I answered Mom's mood scale question tonight with a confident, “Seven.” I'd never, ever tell her the truth, that I had hit a sustained nine. I don't want to get her hopes up.

And why not? Because…My eyes fall on the title of the note: D-Day. Death Day.

True, my one-item to-do list has morphed into a record of all the things, all the
great
things, that I'm experiencing. It's so beyond what I thought was possible, I'll take it. I'll gladly take whatever I can get.

But that doesn't change the fact that I know it will end when Zero returns.

I wonder how much time I have. I haven't felt Zero breathing on me for a few weeks now. But he's not gone for good. I am chronic. And that's why I add to my shoe box when I can. I need the reassurance these bottles give me. I know that I will never again have to deal with Zero's bottoming me out, flattening me into a numb, hollow nothing.

After the surreptitious journey downstairs to deposit the shoe box in its triple-layer vault, I tiptoe up the stairs, alibi glass of water in hand. I pause midway to study one of the fifteen or twenty framed recital photographs, illuminated by the glow of the night-light, that line the staircase wall.

Here I am at four years old with some horrific floppy bunny ears and tail; there as a five-year-old Doc from
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
; then, at age seven, wearing a plain pink leotard and sparkly tutu, with a braid that Grandma had twisted into a high bun and circled with a pink velvet ribbon. I still have that ribbon taped on a page in my “All About Me” book.

That was a big year dance-wise—it was the year I was anointed a soloist. From then on, I had solo performances in every recital until I was thirteen. Olivia was always thrilled for me and would stand beside me as we waited for Miss Ruth to post the roles, but I don't remember Riley ever being there. She was the first to quit Miss Ruth's School of Dance, about thirty seconds after I had taken my solo bows and walked off the stage with a big bouquet of flowers for the
Sleeping Beauty
recital.

We were twelve. I'll always remember it because it was the first time any of us cursed. “This fucking sucks,” Riley had said. She was waiting for me backstage in full pout mode, her eyelids heavily colored with the metallic silver-blue shadow the three of us had bought together at Walgreens. “I think we're done with this baby stuff. Let's do hip-hop someplace new.” Olivia had abdicated with Riley to the Dance Studio, a new place on the Cranbury Green, but Mom felt a sense of loyalty to Miss Ruth, and so did I.

Riley's jealousy-inspired move to the new place turned out to be pointless. Because my dancing career at Miss Ruth's came to an abrupt end just a year later. After July 3, when Grandma died, I never danced in one of Miss Ruth's recitals again.

Mom and I both oversleep on Monday morning; she has to call school so I don't get detention. We had stayed up late Sunday watching an old movie,
Jerry Maguire.
It's one of Mom's favorites, and I have to admit, it was surprisingly good. We polished off almost all the Nonny cookies, saving three each for our lunches today.

I enter history class. Mr. Oleck is lecturing from the podium and, without stopping his verbal flow, holds out his hand to accept the pass I got from the front office. I glance at Michael and then Sabita, my Halloween-party comrades, and they both grin. I approach my desk and Louis Farricelli looms like a rotting mountain of flesh behind it. The neck brace still encases his thick neck and he's got a twisted smile as his eyes lock onto my pelvic region. I'm tempted to give him the finger at the zipper level of my jeans, but he'd probably take it as an invite. As I turn to slide into my seat, I realize there's another fucking note waiting for me on my desk. It's got the same block letters spelling out “Catherine,” but this time it's taped shut. I hear Riley's distinctive snort-giggle.

And with devastating familiarity, Zero flutters by me.

I don't want to open the note, but my fingers have a mind of their own. It's another psycho-movie recommendation:
A Beautiful Mind.
I crumple up the paper and cram it into the pocket of my hoodie.

Humiliation washes over me, and I feel my throat clog up. Mr. Oleck's voice is white noise. My life is hard enough without these goddamn sucker punches. I sit there, overheating from the stress, and then realize there's another, stronger emotion beginning to surface: anger. Because they'd never be doing this if I had something physically wrong with me like cancer. They'd be the first to jump on the Help Catherine bandwagon, blanketing the Cranbury coffee shops and stores with colorful flyers for whatever fund-raising event they were holding in my honor.

I want to walk right over to Riley and rip her stringy blond hair out. I want to make her little blue eyes shed tears. I focus only on the anger for a change. Because it feels a hell of a lot better than dwelling on the pain of this latest betrayal.

The class blurs to an end. Behind me, two boys jockey for control of Louis Farricelli's backpack. Farricelli is taking full advantage of the extra travel time he's allotted between classes because of the injury. He hasn't leveraged his bulk out of his seat yet but sends the two off with his backpack.

Riley skates past me surrounded by a gaggle of theater geeks. I do a quick search for Olivia. She usually trails Riley like an indentured servant. Today, though, she's nowhere in sight.

Suddenly, Sabita is standing beside my desk. “Hey, Catherine,” she says kind of shyly as the rest of the class shuffles out. Michael makes eye contact and tilts his head to indicate that he'll wait for me outside.

“Hi,” I say to Sabita.

Sabita offers me a book. “I was doing research for my soldier project at the library yesterday and found this. For you. And Jane.” Her eyes crinkle in a smile.

I'm floored. This almost-friend actually remembered what I told her Friday night about Jane, and here she is making the effort to check out a book and give it to me. Her kindness is a balm to all the bullshit with Riley.

Sabita runs a hand through her long black hair. “There's a couple of pages on the Six Triple—” She stops short because a pen has just flown past her and hit the floor.

I turn around. Farricelli is leering at Sabita. “Oops. My bad. Would you mind picking that up for me, Sabita?”

I stand up. “Don't do it. He just wants to see you bend over.”

Sabita actually laughs. It's not a flirty, oh-Louis-you're-a-naughty-boy-I'm-laughing-
with
-you laugh but an oh-Louis-you-are-such-a-pathetic-creep-I'm-laughing-
at
-you laugh. Suddenly, I get the ridiculousness of Farricelli and his pen. I laugh too.

And even though he's a disgusting lech, he's not stupid. Louis Farricelli understands our mockery, and that current of malice I've felt percolating in him since his accident rises to his eyes. It makes both Sabita and me hurry out of the classroom and into the hall, where we join Michael. Looks like I'm not the only psycho in AP U.S. history. Note to self: Stay the eff away from that dude.

At 7:34 p.m. my phone choos. It's an email from Jenna, the curator at the New Haven Museum. She's been going through a box of letters and has found a second one from Jane. Not only has she sent me a photo of the letter but also transcribed it for me. My heart ratchets up a notch, as if I'm getting a letter from someone I actually know. Mom sets up the laptop for me on the kitchen table and I open the document attached to Jenna's email.

It's dated June 19, 1944. So Jane wrote this only a few months after the one displayed in the museum in which she complains bitterly of the prejudice at her South Carolina base.

Dear Mama,

You'd better sit down to read this. It's good news, but I know you, Mama. Get yourself a big glass of water or maybe even some of that sherry you use for cooking. And whatever you do, do not start hollering. Hollering these days is only bound to scare somebody. And this is good news, Mama. Your daughter, Jane Louise Talmadge, is going to Europe! Yes, yes, yes! I've been picked to be part of the first WAC unit assigned to overseas duty. Now, please don't start worrying. As I'm writing this, I can see the tears falling down your cheeks.

First off, I'm not sure we're headed to Europe. It's just the gossip that's flying around down here. Second, I don't even know when we're going. With my luck, by the time they get around to sending us, the war will be over. Now, you know I want the war to end. I don't mean that the way it sounds. It's just for the things that are the most important to us, it always takes forever and a day to get done. And third, we won't be too close to the fighting. We'll be assigned driving and secretarial duties and not that escort business for our Negro soldiers over there. Please just put that nasty thought out of your mind.

I am so excited, Mama! I never thought I'd ever get to Europe. I don't know how I was chosen. A group of officers came around and interviewed a bunch of us, and I guess I must've said something right. Maybe because I have that year of college, I don't know, but I am thanking God for sure. I need to get my hands on some books on Europe. I need to do a lot of reading so I know what I'm looking at when I get there. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for England or France. I still can't believe it. It's a dream come true! When I'm teaching, I'll be able to tell my students that I served in Europe.

Give Petey and Mari a big hug and kiss for me and tell them that their big sis will bring home lots of souvenirs from Europe for them.

Your loving daughter,

Jane