You Have Seven Messages (8 page)

A few of them gasped and one woman said, with unveiled disdain, “Can you imagine the mother who’d let her daughter out in something like that?”

I have never been drunk, but I imagine what I felt was similar. A deep gravity consumed me, and I fell to the floor in slow motion, crouching behind the couch. Someone called from the kitchen and all the women got up to leave. Then I felt a sharp pain in my stomach, like I had been punched, and I literally couldn’t breathe. My eyes became rivers and everything blurred.

Eventually Rachel One came in. She sat down next to me but didn’t touch me.

“You know what’s really sad? Your mother was the coolest—she wasn’t really like a mom, you know? My mother is like an android.”

Leave it to Rachel One to make it about her. She does have a heart in there somewhere, but her narcissism is intense.

“She was a mom. She was my mom,” I said.

My breath caught a couple more times, and Rachel just adjusted her position, then her bracelets, and then her hair.

“Anyway, see you in school.”

She started to walk away but then turned around and reached out her manicured hand to help me up. She was the first girl in school to have earrings, be able to wear lip gloss, and get highlights. But if that’s all there is to strive for, what a sad existence. The fakeness of it all made me hold back another fit of tears. She helped me up and I just stood there, studying the empty room. Everything—the curve of the couch, the droopy plant, the billowy curtains—looked different. It was a house without a mom.

My father was upstairs, and Tile was long gone with my grandmother, and no one else was in the house. It seemed so hard to comprehend. There was no order in anything, only swirling thoughts, until one memory settled itself, perhaps one of the earliest ones I had. It was my sixth birthday party, and everyone was waiting for me to take a bite of the “cake,” which was actually pie. I had one of those spastic moments when your body just acts without messages from your mind. I flipped the piece of cherry pie onto my white blouse—of course I was wearing white. After it happened I stood like a stunned animal,
and everyone looked on the verge of bursting into laughter, including the parents. Time seemed to stretch and I remember feeling my head about to explode, then
bam
—my mother dips her hand into her pie and smears it onto her dress, just like that. The pressure in my head evaporated, and before I knew it, everyone was putting cherry pie on each other. Yes, it sounds like a dumb movie but it wasn’t. It was my mother, and her quirky way of handling the situation. She had my back and always protected me, like a lioness with her cub.

So there I was, alone, in a room filled with crumpled-up napkins and leftover drinks. I smelled one of them and could tell it was scotch. I’m not sure why they say alcohol numbs pain. All it did for me was sting my throat and make me want to brush my teeth. Still, I would have reached for anything at that moment. Anything that would take me back to being six, when the worst thing that could happen was staining my clothes with cherry pie.

Now, Rachel One looks at me in her pompous way, then shoos everyone out of the bathroom. I’m glad I’m wearing my blue dress. Even though I’m not really proud of it, I miss her.

“Is that the Marc Jacobs?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

Could you have asked me that at the funeral?

“Okay.”

“You look much better.”

“Thanks.”

I don’t really want to care this much about Rachel One, but I find myself smiling at her like a complete dork.

“I have a new cell, call me, we’ll catch up.” She hands me a pale pink card with her number written in baby blue cursive.

“Sure.”

Janine comes in as Rachel leaves and makes a sound that disapproves of me. She points at the card.

“Back in the clique?” she says, shaking her hair out, then refastening it with a red scrunchie.

“Yeah. Whoopee.”

“The funny thing is, everyone thinks they need the Rachels’ approval now, but in ten years they’ll probably be in some miserable marriage popping out babies for show. Tired.”

She’s probably right. As she leans back a little, I notice that her breasts are way bigger than mine. I tell her a little bit about my Oliver crush. She says we should go on a double date with her and her motorcycle-riding boyfriend.

“Well, let’s wait until he kisses me,” I say, showing her the digits he wrote on my arm.

She runs her fingers along the numbers. “That is so romantic. He really wanted to make a mark, so to speak.”

“Let’s hope so,” I say.

After English, Ms. Gray pulls me aside. She has on
mom jeans and a blue Gap sweater dated about ten years. Her lack of style does nothing to hold back her spirit. After my mother died, she was the only reason I even came to school. She gave me a small journal and told me that whenever I wanted to speak to my mom, I should write my thoughts in it. I never wrote anything, but I still have it, a reminder that someone cared. For three weeks she was the only person I’d talk to. She has this gift for being able to make every single person in her class feel like they’re extraordinary.

I show her some of my photographs.

“This is your calling!” she says in a stage whisper.

“I got this vintage camera, Sands Hunter. It’s amazing.”

“That is wonderful! Can you bring it in to show the class?”

“But it has nothing to do with English.”

“I’ll make an exception. C’mon, it’ll be great.”

“Okay,” I say. “I will. But I had a question. You know when I saw you at my mom’s yoga class that time?”

“Yes, dear, what is it?”

“When does Maria teach?”

“Wednesdays and Fridays at four, why?”

“Nothing, I just want to take her class.”

Ms. Gray knows something is up and gives me a funny look. On my way out, I look back at her and she says, “I’m still here, you know. If you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

Janine talks all the way home but I’m not really listening. My mind is focused on what is up my sleeve.

When I get home I stare at the phone for a few minutes before dialing the numbers on my arm. His mother answers, seemingly excited that Oliver has a girl calling him. She tries to act normal but it’s obvious.

“Thanks for helping me out yesterday,” I say when he gets on the line.

“My pleasure. But where were you?”

“It’s a long story, but that’s what I called you about. I need your help. Well, sort of.”

“Okay, how?”

At the risk of sounding like Tile, I say, “There’s foul play.”

Silence on the line. I decide to just forge on.

“I am, well, looking into my mother’s death. I have her phone, and there are seven messages. I am listening to each one in order to see if I can piece it all together.”

“What do you mean, ‘looking into her death’?”

“I’ll explain. But listen, can … can you come with me later? To yoga?”

More silence. I feel my heart banging against my rib cage.

“Hang on.”

I hear him speaking Spanish to his housekeeper; then his breathing comes back on the line. “What time?” he says.

“Four.”

The housekeeper starts talking again.

“Okay. Fifteen, I have to go. See you outside at three-thirty.”

I hang up the phone. Just as my heart starts to regain its normal beat, I see the picture of Cole sitting on my desk and it hits me. I scan the photograph into my computer. Using the micro zoom in Photoshop, I magnify his wrist area. It’s hard to tell what kind, but he’s definitely wearing a cuff link, and it’s silver.

As we walk the ten blocks to the yoga studio I fill Oliver in on everything. He seems very intrigued by it all, and even though it’s potentially more horrible than it already seems, I get a rush from his reaction. Before I’m finished, it looks as if he’s already devising a plan.

“So why do we have to actually take the yoga class?”

“To be nonchalant.”

“I like how you think, Fifteen.”

The place is a huge, spotless studio overlooking Columbus Avenue. We set up our mats far enough away that it’s not awkward. The fact that he looks like he’s dressed for soccer practice is adorable. I’m suddenly seeing why the Rachels are so obsessed with boys. I’m thinking, as I sneak looks at him during the opening breathing, that I just never had the right one to fixate on.

Maria’s tan makes me feel like an albino. The class is
superhard and we’re completely drenched in sweat by the end. She doesn’t recognize me until I introduce myself.

“Luna! I haven’t seen you in years, you’re all grown!”

I smile and turn the attention to Oliver, whose curls are flattened onto his face.

“You guys were really good. Your first time?”

“This type, yes. But I actually have a question for you.”

Here’s when she gets that look. The one of sympathy that I guess I should appreciate, but most of the time it makes me feel worse. She knows the question’s going to be about my mother.

“Sure. Anything.”

“Were you with my mother at Butter the night she died?”

Some long-haired guy quickly hugs her on his way out, sweat and all. Oliver cringes.

“No, dear, I wasn’t.”

Time slows down. I feel my heart drop through the floor and my throat constrict, and I want to scream,
Yes! Yes you were!
But she wasn’t, which means my father lied to me. Oliver is studying his bare feet and wiggling his toes.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I say, but it comes out like a whimper. I feel pathetic.

“I haven’t … 
hadn’t
seen your mother since that fundraiser on the boat. She had taken a hiatus from my class. I’m so terribly sorry, Luna.”

Please don’t let her hug me with the combined sweat of everyone in her class that just hugged her
.

“Thank you,” I say, and quickly turn away.

When we get outside, Oliver says, “I know what you need now.”

He takes me to a place called the Creperie and—I’m serious—orders in French. My anger toward my father is momentarily dissolved as my teeth sink into a thin banana-chocolate crepe with melted vanilla ice cream.

“So who do you think was really with her that night?” Oliver asks as we finish our crepes.

“Well, it’s obviously someone important, or my father wouldn’t have lied about it.”

“Right. Cole?”

“That would explain the cuff link. Will you try and find him with me?”

“This sure beats doing my scales,” he says, and leaves a crisp twenty on the table.

“Was that a date?” I ask as we enter the pedestrian traffic.

“If you wanted it to be,” he says.

As we walk toward home, Oliver looks at me with genuine concern.

“Do you think your mom was having an affair with this guy?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t want to even go there without knowing for sure, you know?”

“Yeah. My dad was having an affair before they got
divorced. There was this woman who gave me tennis lessons. It’s ridiculous how naive I was. She was practically falling all over him.

“Do you think your father was somehow involved in the accident?”

His direct questioning has a bizarre effect on me. Instead of being defensive, I am totally at ease. He grasps my hand for a minute, then uncurls his fingers to let go.

“I hadn’t even thought about that, but maybe he was.”

There’s an old woman holding court on her stoop with two UPS guys. Oliver stops me at the corner and gives me a serious look.

“Whatever it is, Fifteen, I think it’s good you are doing this. You deserve to know.”

We continue in silence, and he takes my hand again, this time holding on. In the middle of all that’s happening, something feels right. I let each breath go deep and relish it. When we get to my door we almost kiss, but we both become self-conscious. Instead, he puts his hand under my chin for a brief time, and I feel prettier than any Rachel in the world.

I avoid my father tonight. I’m afraid of the sharp words that may hurl out of my mouth. When there’s a knock on my door, I brace myself. Thankfully, it’s only Tile.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Elise’s here, so all the rules go out the window,” Tile says with a smile.

“She is?”

“Can’t you smell her? It’s like, onions or something … ew.”

“It’s called patchouli.”

“Pawhosit?”

For a moment I wish I were Tile’s age, so immune to the hardness of things. My mother’s death will affect him more as he grows older. Especially when he finds out what I’m discovering. Do I want to know more? Is there
a legitimate reason why my father wouldn’t tell me who was at dinner that night?

I tell Tile to get lost, and will myself to relax. I listen to my iPod for a while, music always being my chosen form of escape, then drift off to sleep.

The next day I take the entire stack of Daria photos and put them in a big envelope. My father’s still with Elise, and Tile is right—all rules are off.

This time the cabdriver who gives me a ride to Greenpoint is talking very loudly into an earpiece in what I believe is Swahili. It sounds like chanting, and it has a calming effect on me.