Authors: Ellen Wittlinger
Zigzag
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Also by Ellen Wittlinger
Razzle
The Long Night of Leo and Bree
What's in a Name
Gracie's Girl
Hard Love
Contents
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For my mother, Doris Wittlinger,
and for my second parents, John and Mary Pritchard.
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With grateful thanks to my editor, David Gale; his assistant, Ellie Bisker;
my agent, Ginger Knowlton; and to Pat Lowery Collins, Anita Riggio, and
David Pritchard for their help and advice on the manuscript.
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Special thanks also to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown,
Massachusetts, for time and space in which to work.
T
he party was to celebrate my boyfriend Chris's high school graduation, no occasion for rejoicing as far as I was concerned. As usual, the Melvilles had gone overboard for their one and only son, putting up a big white tent in their overly landscaped backyard and having the food catered by Biscuit, the hot new restaurant in Iowa City.
I'd already been forced to talk to the high school principal, two Spanish teachers, and Chris's next-door neighbors; my smile was sagging like Custer's mustache. All anybody could come up with to say to me was, “Just think, Robin, next year you'll be graduating!” Whoopee. Sure couldn't wait for my big fabulous future to start.
I found Chris scarfing down shrimp at the buffet table. “Having fun?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“Fun might be too much to aim for,” I said, hooking my thumb in the armhole of my dress to try and stretch it a little. It really was too tight this year. “You think we can leave soon?”
“I don't know.” He grimaced. “It's my party. I can't just . . .”
“I know, but it's been going on all afternoon already. I thought we could . . . you know . . . have our own celebration.” I tried to
look innocent and loving, rather than the way I actually feltâbored and bummed.
Chris slipped an arm around my waist and kissed my hair just above my ear. “I can't wait,” he said. “You know, you look gorgeous in that dress.”
I gave him a skeptical look. “This dress is a hundred years old.”
“It is not, and anyway, I like it on you. Don't you believe me?”
Big sighs from both of us.
We'd argued about this more than onceâthat when Chris compliments me I disagree with him or say it's not true. He says I don't value myself enough, but I think I'm just being realistic. I look okay, but my hair's too thin, and my boobs aren't very big, and I never have anything to wear he hasn't seen a million times already. Chris always says my eyes are beautiful, but eyes are a pretty small percentage of a person. No, the only thing special about me is Chris.
A beefy hand on the end of a long arm divided the air space between us.
“Christopher! The young man with the big future!” I looked up at the tall, bald-headed guy connected to the arm and recognized Dr. Ransom, fellow surgeon and friend of Chris's dad. Chris's mother is a doctor, too, a pediatrician here in town. The party was lousy with medical types; I'd already been introduced to two cardiologists, a neurologist, and an obstetrician. My mother is a nurse, so I've heard enough about doctors over the years that I'm not that impressed by a string of letters tacked on behind a name.
Where was Franny, anyway? There weren't many high school kids there because most of Chris's friends were seniors, and their parents were throwing parties for them, too. Franny was a junior, like me. The only reason she'd agreed to come was because she'd never been inside the Melvilles' house and she wanted to “check it out.” I just hoped she wouldn't get caught by one of the good
doctors nosing through their closets or taking inventory in the kitchen cabinets.
Dr. Ransom was practically shouting at Chris. “Best years of your life, son! You're going to have a wonderful time at Georgetown. When I was at Hopkinsâstop me if I've told you this already . . .”
Blah, blah, blah. The guy loved bouncing his big voice off Chris, but Chris didn't mind. He'd have a conversation with a rock if you painted a face on it. I gave Chris a smile and pulled away. Georgetown University, a thousand miles from Iowa, was not my favorite topic of conversation.
I was headed across the lawn to see if Franny was inside when I was intercepted by Dr. Melville. The female one.
“Robin, dear, could you do me a huge favor?” She tipped her head over toward one shoulder to show me how sorry she was about asking someone who wouldn't dare refuse her.
“Sure, Dr. Melville. What do you need?”
“The caterers have left to do another party. They'll be back to clean up, of course, but meanwhile they've left several platters in my kitchen, which are too large for me to manage in these heels. I
hate
to ask you, but . . .”
But there was no one else she'd dare ask. She was probably thinking I looked like I ought to be working for the caterer anyway.
“No problem,” I told her.
The Melvilles' house is large by any standards, but in Thunder Lake, Iowa, it's a mansion. In order to get to the kitchen you have to walk across a big screened sunporch filled with wicker chairs and flowery cushions. Then the kitchen opens up in front of you, an enormous black-and-white room in which everything sparkles, from the faucet handles to the china cat food bowls. In our house the faucets are lucky to have handles, and the cats live in the barn where they nosh on filet of mousie.
The hors d'oeuvre platters were lined up on the island between the kitchen and the family room, and there, sitting on a stool, picking at olives, was Franny.
“There you are,” I said. “You deserted me.”
“I think you're confusing me with your boyfriend.” She swallowed a hunk of cheese and reached for more. “Besides, it's hotter than hell out there.”
“No kidding. And I have to take these trays out. The caterer left.”
Franny's jaw fell. “Jesus, why don't they get the Prince to do it?”
“He's busy fending off jerks. Help me, okay?”
She sighed. “Okay, but I'm not putting my shoes back on. Let's leave one tray inside, so we can come back in and have our own party.”
We each took two trays, wobbled down the steps and across the grass to the tent. Chris was still on the other side of the table laughing at some old guy's jokes.
“Thank you, girls,” Dr. Melville said as she swept by the table on her way to greet more guests.
Franny gave a low bow. “Your wish is our command.”
I elbowed her. “Careful, she has
no
sense of humor.”
“Really? Can't she
buy
one? A sense of humor is more useful than most of those other senses if you're going to get through life in one piece.”
Franny is an expert on getting through life in one piece. The year I met her, the year we started middle school, Franny's life was in half a dozen large chunks. Her parents had just begun the most publicly bitter divorce Thunder Lake had ever seen. They blamed each other for their own problems, and for “ruining the kid.” By the time I met her, they were both demanding their right to the money, the house, the cars, and Franny.
It got so bad they'd each show up after school and stand in
front of the building literally pulling her back and forth between them. A few times Liz, her mom, was pretty drunk. Several times the principal tried to stop their arguments, and once the police were called.
Franny was just about nuts from the whole thing. Her grade school friends were scared of the whole situation and totally deserted her. She'd show up in class wearing big black boots and short shorts, with black eyeliner circles drawn around her eyes so she always looked surprised. The first time I saw her, she had a shaved head. To me she seemed like the most interesting person in the whole school. Her life was high drama while mine was still a
Nickelodeon
cartoon. Within weeks we were inseparable.
Franny's stories were riveting. When she told me her mother had had a boyfriend before she divorced her father, I was horrified.
“What did he do when he found out?” I asked her.
“Got drunk, as usual.”
“But, I mean, did he scream or hit her or anything?”
“No, he usually hits me. He's afraid of Liz so he just smacks me instead.”
“Franny, that's awful! You can't live with him anymore!”
Whenever I said things like that, Franny would smile at me, as if she was really sorry to have to tell me what a crappy world it was. “It just seems awful to you because your mom is so normal. I'm used to having crazy parents.”
But I refused to agree. “It
is
awful, Franny. You're just used to it so you don't see how bad it is.”
I couldn't imagine living with a man who got drunk and hit me when he was mad at my mother. In fact, I could barely imagine living with
any
man. My dad had left us right after my first birthday; I saw him only a few times a year.
When I was younger I'd get so excited waiting for him to come over to take me out for lunch, I'd sometimes get sick to my
stomach and Mom would have to call him and put it off for another time. Just having him standing in our living room made me nervous. It made the whole house feel different, as if Mom and I were cats and here this dogâa totally different
species
âhad walked into our house, and even though he
seemed
friendly, I didn't really know any other dogs. How were you supposed to act around a dog? I didn't even
speak
dog.
By the time the day was over and he dropped me off at home again, I'd just be getting used to him. I'd be starting to purr a little bit. Just in time to start missing him and his big barky voice.
Franny had been living with her mom in one of those developments where all the houses look the same. Her dad had gotten an apartment in Iowa City, where he worked, and he wanted her to live there with him instead, which would have meant changing schools. While they argued about it, they kept dragging her back and forth between Thunder Lake and Iowa City, until finally they started battling it out in court.
Franny got furious with both of them. “If I'm already
ruined,
why do they even want me? I'm not going to live with either one of them! I'm running away to Chicago.”
I felt bad for her, having to put up such a brave front. But the day she showed me the bus ticket, I got scared. “You can't go there alone! Where will you live?”
“I'll get by,” Franny said, lighting up a cigarette and trying to look tough without inhaling.
“I'll go with you,” I announced, hoping it wouldn't come to that.
But she refused my company anyway. “Your mother would miss you too much. And you'd miss her.” Which was true.
“But you can't leave, Franny!” I begged. “You're my best friend!” We cried a little over how much we'd miss each other. I hated to see Franny cry; once she started, she often couldn't stop, and I knew she wasn't crying over me. She'd cry until the
eyeliner ran down her cheeks and smudged my bedspread.