We Are All Made of Molecules (8 page)

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN,
he's having a sleepover?” I said to my mom on Saturday morning. She'd insisted I go with her to a fashion show fund-raiser the night before, saying we needed some “mother-daughter bonding time.” It wound up being really fun, and in fact we bonded so much that I even asked her sweetly on the way home if she'd reconsider giving me my allowance. She said no. That led to another heated argument, and by the time she pulled up out front, we were crabby at each other all over again.

And now I had crabbiness on top of crabbiness. “
I'm
having a sleepover!” I protested. Lauren and I have sleepovers about once a month. We take turns between houses, but we both know that my house is better, since my bedroom is
bigger, my music's better, my makeup is better, and I have better low-fat snacks.

Mom was making brunch, still in her bathrobe. There was a pile of dirty dishes on the counter with bits of food crusted all over them, left there by Lenny and Squiggy the night before. “All they had to do was rinse them and put them in the dishwasher,” Mom muttered to herself. “Is that so hard?”

“Mom! Have you heard a word I've said?”

She sighed. “Yes. I heard you. So you'll both have sleepovers. So what?”

I put my hands on my hips. “I just want to state for the record that I feel like I and my wishes are being seriously taken for granite lately.”

“For
granted
,” she replied just as the doorbell rang. I followed Mom into the foyer. A dark-skinned but equally geeky-looking version of Stewart stood at the door, a duffel bag in his hands. “Hello, I'm Alistair Singh. You must be Caroline and Ashley. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too, Alistair. Stewart's in his room. You can go on up. It's on the left at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks.” Alistair slipped off his shoes, then nodded toward the living room. “I see you've found a home for Janice's painting.”

“Janice?” I said.

“Stewart's mom,” he said before he took off upstairs. Mom and I looked at each other, puzzled. We peered into the living room.

I almost screamed. And totally one hundred percent no joke, my mom almost screamed, too.

A massive oil painting hung over the fireplace. The space had been empty since Dad moved out; he took very little with him, but he did take the painting that used to hang there, because he'd bought it before he and Mom were married. It was an
abstract
, meaning it looked like a kindergarten kid had thrown paint at a canvas.

This thing was not abstract. It was very, very lifelike. And it was unmistakably Stewart's dead mother, breastfeeding her baby. Who was unmistakably Stewart. And the breasts were
bare
!

“Did you know about this?” I asked.

Mom looked pale. “No. I mean, yes—I've seen it at their old house. But no, I didn't realize they'd brought it here. I thought it had gone into storage.” She pulled her bathrobe tight, hugging herself. “They must have hung it up last night. I don't know how we missed it when we came in.”

“Mom, it can't stay. You know it can't stay! It's practically pornography!”

“Ashley, breastfeeding is perfectly natural—”

“
WhatEVER!
It doesn't mean we should have to look at it twenty-four-seven in our own house!”

Mom was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “It's not to my taste, either. I'll talk to Leonard when he's back from his fencing class.”

Yup. Uh-huh. Lenny
fences
. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if, after my dad left and before she started dating
her boss
, my mother had a mini-stroke, something that affected the “who I'll be attracted to” part of her brain. Then again, she married a guy who turned out to be gay, so maybe the
“who I'll be attracted to” part of her brain never worked all that well.

Before we'd even left the foyer, the doorbell rang again. It had to be Lauren. “Oh, no,” I groaned. “If Lauren sees this painting, I might as well never go back to school ever again.”

“Sweetheart, she's your best friend. I don't think you give her enough credit. I'm sure she'll understand, just like she'd understand if you told her about your dad.”

I shook my head. Honestly, it's been centuries since my mom was a teenager, so she's totally forgotten about the Social Ladder.

See, I'm pretty much at the top of the Social Ladder in my grade. It wasn't always this way; back in elementary school, we were all the same—kind of dorky, but happy. Then, in the summer before seventh grade, everything changed for me. I got my period and went from being this flat-chested, goofy twelve-year-old to a twelve-year-old with a woman's body. I hated it. I'd walk down the street and guys would stare at me, and not just guys my age, but guys who were my dad's age. It was super-creepy, and I just wanted to go back to being that flat-chested little girl again.

But when seventh grade started, I learned pretty fast that my new look gave me a strange kind of power. It was like both the boys and the girls were a little bit in awe of the new me. So after a while, I did what anyone would do: I used it to my advantage. And practically one hundred percent immediately, I was perched right on top of that ladder.

Lauren is just underneath me, along with Yoko. Amira
and Lindsay are a rung lower, and Claudia is a bit lower still. (People like Stewart don't even count. They don't even have a foot on the ladder. They can't even touch the ladder. They are forbidden to go anywhere
near
the ladder.) Contrary to what I heard my math teacher say one day under his breath, I'm no dummy. I know that the people directly beneath me on the ladder—meaning people like Lauren—would love to see me lose my footing so they can take my place. Which means I can never appear weak or vulnerable, or people like Lauren will go in for the kill.

If I am one hundred percent totally honest, I sometimes long for the olden days, when we were all just little dorks. Things are so much more complicated now.

“I'll take Lauren downtown,” I said to my mom, grabbing my cute puffy blue jacket. “Please, I beg of you, make it be gone by the time we get back.” I opened the front door. Lauren stood there with her overnight bag. “Let's get out of here. The troll's in his room with his troll friend.” I stepped outside.

“Can I just use your bathroom—”

“We'll find one downtown.” I grabbed her overnight bag and tossed it into the foyer before slamming the door behind me.

We took the bus to Granville Street and wandered around the Pacific Centre mall. I showed Lauren the skirt I was dying to get at H&M. “I thought you were going to have enough money to get it this weekend,” she said.

“Nope, my mom canceled this week's allowance 'cause I was rude to the nerd-bot.”

Lauren giggled. “Ugh, who wouldn't be rude to him?
He's such a Tragic!”
Tragic
is our word for super-geeks and super-losers. There is a whole army of Tragics at our school.

I giggled, too, and for the next hour or so, we bonded over ridiculing Stewart and other Tragics in our grade, like Lardy, whose real name is Larry, and Sam, who could be a boy or could be a girl—we honestly have no idea. Then we wandered down Robson Street and went into Forever 21. Lauren tried on pants and I tried on some stuff just for fun.

“You won't believe who talked to me in history yesterday,” she said while we were in side-by-side dressing rooms.

“Who?”

“Jared!”

My stomach lurched. Lauren's lucky; she has three classes with Jared. I don't have any.

“What did he want?”

“He was wondering if I knew of any parties this weekend. I had to say no, because I don't. But for a minute I actually thought he was going to ask me out! Then the teacher told us to be quiet.”

We stepped out to show each other what we'd tried on. Lauren was wearing a pair of red skinny jeans.

“What do you think?” she asked. “I like them.”

“Twirl around,” I said. She did. They looked good on her. Really good. But I had to remember the Social Ladder. “They're a great color,” I said, “but they kind of make your ass look fat.”

She didn't buy the pants. I felt a twinge of guilt. But then I reminded myself: high school is a doggy-dog world.

ON THE BUS BACK
home, I texted Mom.

Is it gone?

It felt like it took forever to get her reply.

Yes
.

Better still, when we got back, the troll was out with his troll friend. Mom and Leonard were out, too.

“Can I see the cat?” Lauren asked. I'd told her about Shoe Box and how fugly he was.

For the second time in a week, I went into Stewart's room. Shoe Box darted under the bed, and none of Lauren's coaxing would get him to come out.

Then we spotted the thing on his desk.

It was made of spaghetti and marshmallows, and it was huge. Clearly Stewart and his nerd-ball friend had spent the day building it. It looked kind of like the Eiffel Tower.

Lauren and I locked eyes. “Dare you,” she whispered.

It was a no-brainer. I picked up Stewart's math book. I held it over the tower.

I let go.

ALISTAIR AND I HAD
an awesome morning. First, we spent a long time in the basement, working on my bicycle. This is a pet project of mine; a few months ago I bought a used ten-speed for just sixty dollars, and I'm converting it into an electric bike. I'm trying to do the entire conversion for under one hundred dollars, which is a challenge, but doable.

After we'd spent a couple of hours on the motor, we needed to blow off some steam. Caroline let us take a box of spaghetti and a bag of marshmallows from the kitchen, and we built our own version of the Eiffel Tower in my room. When we were done, we decided we should get some fresh air, so we headed downstairs.

We were about halfway down when I heard my dad and
Caroline arguing. I stopped and motioned for Alistair to do the same.

“We didn't mean to upset you,” my dad was saying. I could just see him in the living room; he was still wearing his fencing uniform. He looks very good in his fencing uniform—taller somehow, and more muscular.

“I know that. But there are good surprises and not-so-good surprises, and I'm sorry, but this one falls into the latter category.”

“What don't you like about it? Is it the artistry? I think you'd agree Janice had a real talent.”

“She did, absolutely. But, well—think about Ashley. She's a teenager, Leonard. A very difficult, challenging teenager, but still. The nudity is mortifying to her.”

“But it's a perfectly natural—”

“I know, I know—”

“Famous artists have painted mother and child scenarios for centuries. Heck, there are millions of such paintings of the baby Jesus and Mary—”

“But they're not in our house. And this isn't the baby Jesus and Mary. It's very clearly Stewart and his mom.”

My dad was quiet for a second. “I think Ashley isn't the only one who's bothered by it.”

“Leonard, I love you. And you know I never expect you to forget Janice, nor would I want you to. But I'm not sure how I feel about her gazing down at me, day after day…especially with her breasts exposed…. I could take the easy way out and blame it solely on Ashley, but you're right. It's not to my taste, either.”

I waited for my dad to tell her what the painting means
to me. What it means to him. I waited for him to tell her that we'd hardly brought any of our stuff to her house and maybe she and Ashley could be a little more accommodating.

But he didn't. Instead, he took Caroline in his arms. “I'll talk to Stewart. We'll take it down. Just let me eat breakfast first, will you?”

“I made your favorite. Oatmeal buckwheat pancakes. There aren't many left over, though. Stewart has a voracious appetite.” They headed into the kitchen.

“You love that painting,” Alistair whispered after they were gone.

I nodded. I realized I was feeling something I don't feel very often, and that is anger. I don't like feeling anger. I avoid it at all costs. So I just said, “Let's go,” and the two of us grabbed our jackets and left the house without saying goodbye to anyone.

—

ALISTAIR AND I WALKED
east toward Main Street. I didn't want to talk about the painting, so instead I filled him in on the Jared Conundrum.

“Wow,” he said. “That's tough.”

“Any ideas?”

He thought for a while. “I know it's a long commute, but…maybe you should come back to Little Genius Academy.”

This, from the guy who'd won Problem Solver of the Year in our school's Model UN two years in a row. “Really, Alistair? That's all you've got?”

“Sorry,” he said. “But Jared sounds like a sociopath. And
it's my understanding that sociopaths are hard to deal with on a rational level.” He had a point.

“But I made a pact with myself that I'd try to make this work. I made it on behalf of my mom. I can't give up after a week. Can I?”

“I guess not. And now that I think of it, you couldn't come back to Little Genius anyway. Your spot was snatched up by some girl on the waiting list.”

Hearing that made my heart sink.

We turned onto Main, which is one of the highlights of being in this neighborhood instead of on the North Shore. It has a real hustle-bustle about it. We headed south, walking past a bunch of one-of-a-kind clothing stores; a butcher shop; Japanese, Thai, and Caribbean restaurants; a Legion hall; a wool shop; five coffee shops; and a thrift store.

We were almost past the thrift store when I noticed Phoebe. She was inside, looking through a rack of clothes with Violet.

“C'mon,” I said to Alistair. I pulled him into the store and marched right up to Phoebe. “Hi!”

She glanced up from the rack. “Oh, hey, Stewart,” she said. I saw her share a look with Violet.

“This is my friend Alistair. Alistair, meet Phoebe and Violet. They go to my new school.”

“Nice to meet you,” Phoebe said with a smile. She has a beautiful smile. Her teeth are straight and white. The rest of her face is pretty, too. It is a very symmetrical face, which I find aesthetically pleasing. She has almond-shaped eyes and light brown skin and shoulder-length, jet-black hair. She
was wearing jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, which is all I've ever seen her wear (with variations on the T-shirt color); this tells me she doesn't put a lot of thought into her appearance, an admirable quality since there are so many more important and interesting things to think about.

“Looking for anything in particular?” I asked them while Alistair wandered deeper into the store.

“Not really. Once I found the coolest jacket here, so we always have a quick look when we pass by,” said Phoebe.

“Can we ask you a question?” Violet asked as she kept flicking through the rack of clothes. She wore a knee-length skirt with black tights and a pair of lime-green Converse high-tops.

“Shoot.”

“Is it true you're Ashley Anderson's brother?”

“No, not really. I mean, my dad and I have moved in with her and her mom. But we're not related by blood.”

“Thank God for that,” Violet muttered.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just that she's a horrible human being and we hate her guts.”

“Violet,” Phoebe said in a warning voice.

“What? She calls us
Feeble
and
Violent
. Count yourself lucky that you don't share any of her genetic code.”

“Her mom and dad are really nice,” I said.

“Sorry, Stewart,” Phoebe said. “Maybe you know another side to Ashley.”

“Not so far, no,” I confessed. “But I keep hoping for an improvement in our relationship.”

“Yeah, well. Good luck with that,” Violet said. She glanced at her watch. “I have to run. I'm supposed to meet Jean-Paul at his house.”

“Who's Jean-Paul?” I asked.

“Her boyfriend,” Phoebe replied. “He goes to the French immersion high school. I have to run, too. Mandarin lesson. See you Monday.” She and Violet left the store.

I looked around for Alistair, spotting him near the back by the
EMPLOYEES ONLY
sign. He was digging around in a large cardboard box.

“I may have found a solution to your problem,” he said. Then he pulled something out of the box and held it up for my inspection. “Not foolproof. But it would offer a certain amount of protection.”

I smiled. “Alistair, you still get my vote for Problem Solver of the Year. It's perfect!”

—

WHEN WE GOT HOME
,
the weekend kind of went downhill. First of all, the painting had disappeared from the living room, before my dad had even talked to me about it. Second, our Eiffel Tower had been destroyed. Ashley tried to blame it on Schrödinger, but I knew better. I could tell from the trajectory of the broken spaghetti strands that a large, solid object had been dropped on it from above, something like my math book, which wasn't where I'd left it. Third, Ashley and Lauren blasted music all night while Alistair and I tried to play Stratego. I have nothing against loud music, but Ashley and Lauren sang along to every song, and I can say with some authority that they are both tone-deaf.

Fourth, Alistair whipped my butt in Stratego.

Now it's Sunday. Dad tried to talk to me about the painting, after Lauren had left and Alistair had been picked up. He found me snuggling with Schrödinger in my room.

“I'm sorry, buddy. But I had to respect Caroline's wishes.”

“What about
my
wishes?”

Dad sighed. “Well, technically speaking, it
is
her house—”

“So we should just feel like guests in it?”

“No, but we have to be able to compromise.”

“We
have
compromised.
We
moved.
We
only brought a few things with us. And now one of them is gone.”

“Not gone. It's in the basement. If you want, we can hang it in your room instead.”

So we carried the painting up to my room. Caroline helped. She was apologetic about not wanting it in the living room, but she also stuck to her guns.

Dad held the painting up against one of my walls. While I looked at it from the other side of the room, the cold, hard truth hit me. I didn't want it hanging in here, either. It is a very large painting. And while I will love my mom for eternity, I don't want to gaze at a baby-me drinking from her bare boobs every time I wake up and every time I do homework and every time I lie down. That's why the living room had seemed so perfect; it was supposed to be something that everyone could enjoy, but on a limited basis.

So we carried the painting back down to the basement. Dad and I agreed that next time we visit the storage locker, we'll bring the painting with us. Caroline suggested we take something else
out
of the storage locker and bring it home, and I was grateful to her for that.

Still. I know that this will sound possibly overly emotional, but every time we get rid of something else that Mom loved, I feel like we're letting a little bit more of her memory die. I feel like we're betraying her, Dad especially.

I want my dad to be able to move on with his life. I want him to be happy with Caroline. But I don't want him to ever forget or stop loving my mom.