Because It Is My Blood (3 page)

“You should go now,” I told him.

“Why? So you can cry into your pillow over Win? Come here. I’ll let you cry on my shoulder.”

“Go,” I told him.

“Help me up, would you?”

I offered him my hand, and as he was getting to his feet, he whispered in my ear, “You’re prettier than Alison Wheeler, and Win Delacroix is an idiot.”

Gable was loathsome, but even a loathsome person can make a girl feel better sometimes. “Thank you,” I said.

I’d finally bounced him from my room when he turned. “Say, do you have any chocolate around?”

“I can’t believe you’re even asking me that!”

“What? I haven’t had any in months,” Gable replied. “Besides, it wasn’t chocolate that made me sick. It was Fretoxin. You should know better than anyone that there’s nothing wrong with chocolate.”

I told him it was too late for me to know anything for certain. “Do you want my help out to the living room or can you manage it yourself?”

“It’s more fun if you come,” Gable said.

“Not for me.” I closed my bedroom door, turned off my light, and got into bed. Even though it was stuffy in my room, I pulled the covers over my head.

I could imagine a pretty little scenario in which Win was with Alison Wheeler just to distract his father from the fact that he was seeing me. The only problem with that theory was the fact that Win was
not
seeing me. As I have already mentioned, he hadn’t seen or contacted me in over a month. The logical thing to conclude was that Win really was seeing Alison Wheeler.

Maybe it was for the best, though? If I were still with Win, I would put Natty and Leo in danger. It was easier this way, right? Charles Delacroix’s and my plan had been a success. That moment in August had been an anomaly. Maybe it had really been goodbye.

So, good. Everyone had moved on. No one had gotten hurt. (Much.) I had served my time. I was a free woman. And Win, obviously, was a free man.

I wished Nana were here. She would have told me to embrace my freedom. Or maybe she would have told me to have a bar of chocolate.

*   *   *

In the morning, I was woken by the sound of laughter. I pulled on my bathrobe and went out to the living room. I expected that Scarlet had arrived early to escort her boyfriend home, and I was thankful to her. I was more than eager to be rid of my houseguest.

Gable was seated on the couch. He was gesturing with his silver-tipped hand as he said, “Wait, wait, you’re laughing before I’m even at the good part.”

I looked over at the burgundy chair. A woman sat there, but it wasn’t Scarlet.

“Annie!” Natty stood up and threw her arms around me. In shoes, she was slightly taller than me and this was disturbing. “I told myself I was going to give you the cold shoulder, Annie, but I can’t. Why did you lie to me about going to Liberty?”

“I just wanted you to have a good time at genius camp,” I told her.

“I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle things, you know,” Natty informed me.

“Yeah,” Gable added. “She’s definitely not a little kid.”

I told Gable to shut up. “She’s only thirteen. And you have a girlfriend.” And yet Gable was right. The change in my sister was undeniable. I held her at arm’s length so that I could look at her. Over the summer, Natty had grown, maybe four inches, and her skirt was too short. The legs that used to be spider legs had a definite curve to them. She had breasts and hips and a pimple on her chin. She was only thirteen but she looked about twice that. I didn’t like the way Gable was looking at her. I debated whether to hit him over the head with a lamp.

At that moment, Scarlet arrived. “Your hair looks much improved,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek. “Good morning, Natty darling! Doesn’t she look so grown-up, Anya?”

“Indeed,” I said.

“It’s a good thing, too, now that she’s skipped into tenth,” Scarlet continued.

“Wait, what’s this?” I asked.

“I told Imogen I wanted to tell you myself,” Natty explained to me.

Scarlet nodded. “Come, Gable. The elevator is working again. We should go before you’re stuck here another night.” Scarlet turned to me. “I hope he behaved himself.”

“Don’t lie, Anya!” Gable said.

I told Scarlet that Gable had behaved exactly as I’d come to expect, a remark Scarlet chose to take at face value.

Scarlet helped her appalling boyfriend to his feet, and finally they were gone.

I turned to my sister. “You skipped two grades?”

Natty worried the pimple on her chin with her pinkie. “Miss Bellevoir and the people at genius camp thought it was a good idea, and, well…” Her voice turned cool. “You weren’t around to discuss it.”

My baby sister, a sophomore at Holy Trinity?

I sat down on the couch, which still reeked of Gable’s cologne. After a bit, Natty sat down next to me. “I missed you,” she said.

“Did you have nightmares this summer?” I asked.

“Only one or two or three or four, but when they’d start, I’d pretend I was you. Brave like you. And I’d say, ‘Now, Natty, you are just having a dream. Go back to sleep.’ And it worked!” Natty put her arms around me. “I honestly hated you when I found out you’d gone to Liberty. I was so mad, Annie. Why did you do it?”

I explained to her in the simplest terms possible the deal I had made with Charles Delacroix to protect her and Leo. She wanted to know if ending my relationship with Win had been part of that deal. Yes, I told her, it had been.

“Poor Annie. That was the hard part, I bet,” Natty said.

I smiled. “Well, I’d wager that Liberty isn’t as fun as genius camp. It doesn’t help that everyone keeps telling me how horrible I look.”

Natty studied my face. She held my cheeks in her hands, hands with disarmingly long fingers. “You look strong, Annie. That’s all. But then you’ve always been strong.”

She was a good girl, my sister. “Arsley said that Win has a girlfriend?”

“He does,” Natty admitted. “But I don’t know, Win’s so different. He seems angry all the time. I tried to talk to him the first day of school. I wanted to know if he’d heard from you, and he kind of blew me off.”

I reminded her that she’d promised to hate Win Delacroix for the rest of her life.

“That was before I knew you’d lied about Liberty,” Natty said. “Anyway, his leg seems to have healed. He’s still got a cane, but he’s not like Gable or anything.”

“Natty,” I said, “tell me honestly. You weren’t flirting with Gable this morning, were you?”

“That is gross, Anya,” Natty said. “We’re in the same math class. He was telling me a story about the teacher. I was laughing to be polite.”

“Thank God,” I said. I didn’t think I could handle Natty flirting with Gable Arsley. Later, after I had been home a while longer, Natty and I would need to have a serious discussion about boys.

Natty stood and offered me her hand. “Come,” she said. “We need to go to Saturday market. We’re out of just about everything. And Imogen says thirteen is still too young to go by myself.”

“She’s right,” I said.

“You went at thirteen, didn’t you?” Natty insisted.

“I was almost fourteen. And that was only because no one could take me.”

Natty and I rode the bus down to the market at Union Square. You could purchase or trade for just about anything there. Toilet paper or T-shirts. Turnips or Tolstoy. Things that start with T and every other letter of the alphabet. As usual, it was a madhouse. Tables and tents everywhere. Every possible space was filled with a human being, and all those human beings wanted and they wanted now. Or actually, a week ago. Occasionally, someone died in a stampede. Nana once told me that when she was young, there had been grocery stores where you could buy anything you wanted, whenever you wanted. Now, all we had were irregularly stocked bodegas. Your best bet really was the Saturday market.

That day, our list included: laundry detergent, hair conditioner, dried pasta, a thermos, fruit (if we could find it), a new (longer) wool kilt for Natty, and a paper book for Imogen (it was her thirty-second birthday the following week).

I handed Natty a pile of cash and ration coupons. Then I assigned her the book and the kilt. The price was usually the price on those items, so you didn’t have to be an experienced marketer. I would take care of everything else. I had come armed with several bars of Balanchine Special Dark, which I had been surprised to find while taking stock of our mostly barren pantry. Though I had lost my taste for chocolate, it could still be useful when negotiating.

As I made my way through the crowd to where the household chemicals stand usually was, I passed a group of college students who were demonstrating. (Political activity was common at the markets.) A malnourished-looking girl with greasy brown hair and a long flowered skirt jammed a pamphlet into my hand. “Take one, sister,” she said. I looked down at the pamphlet. On the front cover was a picture of what I thought was a cacao pod and the words
Legalize Cacao Now!
“All the stuff they tell you about chocolate is a lie,” she continued. “It’s no more addictive than water.”

“Trust me, I know,” I said as I slipped the pamphlet into my bag. “Where’d you guys get the paper for the pamphlets?”

“The paper shortage is a lie, friend,” a man with a beard replied. “They’re just trying to control us. Always plenty of paper for good old American dollar bills, ain’t there?”

These were the kind of people who thought everything was a lie. Best to be on my way before one of these pro-chocolate folks noticed who I was.

I lucked out and was able to get everything but the fruit and the pasta at the first chemicals stand I visited. I found a pasta vendor a couple of rows down, and he gave me a good deal on penne after I threw in a meat ration coupon and a bar of chocolate. I traded a woman selling flowers two chocolate bars for a bouquet of roses—it was extravagant but I longed for something sweet-smelling and colorful after the summer I had had. The only thing left was the fruit. I’d just about given up on getting anything except the canned stuff when I spotted a sign that read:

Jane’s Citrus

Oranges Grown Right Here in Manhattan

I walked up to the stand. Oranges were my absolute favorite, and they weren’t the kind of thing they served at Liberty.

Win’s mother noticed me before I noticed her. “Anya Balanchine,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I thought it was you. It’s Jane Delacroix.”

I took a step back. “I should go,” I said. If her husband was around, there could be a scene.

“Anya, wait! Charlie isn’t here. He’s campaigning in one of the boroughs. I didn’t want all my summer oranges to go to waste, so I’m here. My husband would rather I wasn’t, but I argued that it was fine. I’m a farmer not a politician’s wife. Besides, real people do market. We’re trying to look like real people, don’t you know?” Jane Delacroix’s pretty face was more lined than the last time I had seen her.

“Oh,” I said.

“Please take one. Win once told me you liked them. He’ll be back any moment, by the way. He’s gone to trade for more sacks. People have their own bags, of course, but the oranges need to breathe. You can’t toss them in anything. Stay,” she ordered.

Win was here? I scanned the crowd: countless faces, but none of them was his.

She held out the fruit, and as I went to take it, she clasped my hand in hers. “How are you?”

I considered the question. “Happy to be free, I guess.”

Jane Delacroix nodded. “Yes, freedom is a very good thing.” Win’s mother had tears in her eyes. “Take two oranges, please. Take a whole sack,” she said. She let go of my hand and started filling her last red mesh bag with oranges.

I told her I was blocking her line. Which I was. There was no time for emotional exchanges at the market, and Jane Delacroix had a valuable commodity.

She thrust the bag of oranges at me. “I will never forget that you saved my son’s life.” She grabbed my face and kissed me on both my cheeks. “I’m sorry for everything. I know you are a good girl.”

Over her shoulder, I saw Win enter through the back of the fruit stand. He was carrying mesh sacks in a variety of colors.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that Win had a girlfriend and that I was not she.

“I should go,” I said. “I have to meet my sister!” I pushed my way through the crowd, away from Win.

I found Natty at the paper books stand, which was called 451 Books. Unlike the chemicals, pasta, or citrus stands, it was empty, except for Natty. She held up two books to me. “What do you think, Annie? Which would Imogen prefer?
Bleak House
, by Charles Dickens, or
Anna Karenina
, by Leo Tolstoy? One’s about, like, a lawsuit, I think, and the other’s a love story maybe? I’m not sure.”

“The one about the lawsuit,” I said. My heart was beating like mad. I put my hand on my chest as if that could stop it.

“
Bleak House
it is,” Natty said, moving away to pay for the book.

“Wait, let’s get both. One from each of us. You’ll give her the love story. I’ll do the lawsuit.”

Natty nodded. “Yes, she is good to us, isn’t she?”

I took a deep breath, making sure that I had all my parcels. Detergent, check. Conditioner, check. Pasta, check. Flowers, check. Thermos, check. Oranges … Blast! I’d somehow left the oranges in Win’s mother’s booth. No way I was going back for them either.

We left the books booth, and despite the fact that she was way too old for it, I took Natty’s hand. “Were you able to get any fresh fruit?” she asked.

I told her that I hadn’t been. I must have looked truly wretched when I said this because Natty felt the need to comfort me. “It’s fine. We still have canned pineapple,” Natty said. “Maybe even some frozen raspberries.”

We were almost out of Union Square when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You left these,” he said. I turned, but I already knew who it was. Of course it was Win. “My mother insisted I find you…”

What was wrong with Win’s mother?

“Hello, Natty,” Win continued.

“Hello, Win,” she said coolly. “You don’t wear hats anymore. I liked you better with hats.”

I took the sack of oranges and said nothing.