Lipstick Apology (9 page)

“Your parents sound like they were really great people.” Anthony got up and retrieved his calculator off the floor. He looked at me with a hint of a smile. “
You
surprise me.”

“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “How?”

He smiled sort of a secret smile. “You're different than most of the girls this side of Houston Street. You're honest and, I don't know, just a little bit crazy.”

With horror, I felt a lump in the back of my throat. I looked away. “So, tell me about your parents.”

Anthony leaned on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “Mom's a hard worker—never complains about anything except her weight. She wants that gastric bypass surgery, but she says she can't get it because it would hurt business. She thinks people wouldn't buy from a skinny baker. She calls me. Constantly. Now she's discovered how to text. It's a total nightmare. She texts me jokes all the time. Whose mom does that?” He chewed on his pencil for a minute. “My dad was a firefighter.”

“Was?” I asked.

Anthony nodded. “He died when I was five. He pulled a woman out of a burning building in Woodside, then went back to get the dog. He never came back out.”

He said this matter-of-factly. I'm sure there was pain, but he was able to control his emotions as if we were discussing the weather.
Maybe time does heal all wounds,
I thought.

“I'm sorry about your dad,” I said reflexively, even though I hated it when people apologized for my parents' death.

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “I was really young, but I remember how hard it was. How unexpected—our total lack of preparation. Everything was so fresh, every detail available for scrutiny. You think it'll be that way forever—but here's the thing—life just keeps on going. People are forgotten and details get fuzzy. You have to work really hard to both let go and hold on.”

I nodded, realizing that perhaps this was why I instantly felt so comfortable around Anthony, because we had experienced such similar things.

“I look at Dad's picture,” Anthony said. “And that helps me remember his smile. But I can't hear his voice anymore.”

I wondered when the scrawled writing on a tray table would become a distant memory and no longer pierce my heart daily. “Well, maybe it's better,” I said suddenly.

Anthony wrinkled his forehead.

“Maybe it's better that you lost your dad while he was still a hero in your mind.” I blinked back tears. “You grow up thinking everything is all perfect, but really everyone's just one horrible news flash away from finding out their parents are harboring secrets and lies.”

Anthony leaned in close to me and put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes glistened with honey speckles, and I knew that at that minute he was understanding me better than anyone else. I felt a little exposed, and I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. It was like he had a rope and was pulling me toward him. He leaned in a little closer, and I think I saw him tilt his head a little.

The moment seemed almost orchestrated, like if we were in a movie, we would kiss. It would be a soft, fragile kiss. Suddenly, as if a montage clip in a movie, snapshots of scenes flashed through my mind: Anthony and me kissing, leaning against lockers. Lying on a couch. Waving goodbye as he drops me off at college. Long-distance letters. Late-night phone calls. An unexpected visit to my dorm room. A small square box. A large square diamond. Picking out china. Picking out an apartment. A wedding at the beach. A strapless gown. A honeymoon in Paris. A new home. A little pink line. A crying baby. Anthony placing her in my arms.

My stomach felt all jittery inside. I smiled at him and tilted my head seductively. “I'm sorry I'm so bad at chemistry.”

“I wouldn't want any other partner,” he said flirtatiously. He reached over and grabbed my lab book. “Let me show you.” He lingered close, his arm rubbing against mine. As his fingers punched the numbers on the calculator, his elbow bumped the small white pastry box and the lid cracked open just a sliver. Just enough to release a puff of lemon-scented air.

Lemon pound cake. Like my mother.
The mother who wouldn't be there to help me in my strapless gown. The father who wouldn't walk me down the aisle. The baby who would never know her grandparents.

I pushed him away from me. “I can't do this.”

“Sure, you can, Em. Here, let me show you.”

Outside the window another plane was flying over the river. “No, I really can't do this!” I dropped the calculator and it clattered noisily on the table.

“Look,” he said calmly. “Really, if you break it down, it's just simple multiplication . . .”

I had to get away from him and the lemon cake that was overwhelming and distressing me. “YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND!” I wailed, no longer recognizing my own voice. It was loud, and high-pitched, and frightening. I backed up quickly, my chair falling over behind me.

Anthony bolted upright with a look of panic. Not a panic like,
Oh, no, what's wrong? Can I help you?
More like,
Where the hell is the emergency exit?
That thought made me think of a plane, which made me think of my parents, and I started to wail all over again.

“JUST GO!” I shrieked, flailing my arms like a crazy person, trying to shove him out of his chair.

“But . . .?” He looked so confused.

He wouldn't leave and I
needed
him to leave. So in a frenzy I picked up the beaker and smashed it down onto the kitchen table. The glass shattered everywhere, and the white crystallized powder spilled onto the table.

“Holy crap! Our compound!” Anthony panicked and frantically began scooping the compound into his hands. He cut his pinky finger on a glass shard and traces of red blood stained the white powder.

“LEAVE!” I screamed because the lemon fragrance was everywhere. “GO!” But he was concentrating too hard on saving our compound.

What happened next will compete with any of Georgia's SOAPnet storylines for craziest, most thoughtless, most insane moves ever. But I was desperate for Anthony to leave and for the memories to stop. So without thinking, I leaned over and with all my might, I blew the pile of crystallized compound like I was blowing out candles on a birthday cake. The room was completely silent as the powder exploded into a mushroom cloud of dust.

I will never forget the look of horror in Anthony's eyes. Or the sad way he turned and left, leaving his books and bag at my table. And I was left alone with tiny specks of crystals flying all around me like I was trapped inside a New York City snow globe.

“SERIOUSLY, GEORGIA,
I was in full-on ugly cry mode. It was mortifying. Anthony probably thinks I'm nuts. Like certifiable.” The phone was slippery in my hand. I was nervous about calling Georgia after our last phone call ended awkwardly, but Georgia acted as if everything was normal.

“So you really smashed the beaker?” Georgia asked.

“Uh-huh.” I sighed.

“And blew the compound. You actually
blew
?”

“I know. It's humiliating.”

“But you really think he was about to kiss you?” Georgia asked.

“What does it matter now? Unless I have a split personality for explanation, he's never going to speak to me again.”

“Did he do the tilt-and-lean? Were his lips together or apart?”

“I'm not sure, but it was just a feeling. He had this penetrating look and I felt like I saw right through his honey brown eyes all the way into his soul—”

“Honey brown?” Georgia interrupted. “I thought he had green eyes. Remember,” she mimicked,
“Honestly, they're like emerald green.”

“That's Owen,” I said.

“And this was . . .?” Georgia asked.

“Anthony.”

“I thought you liked Owen. Who the heck is Anthony? Jeez, when you lived here, you couldn't even
talk
to Steve McCaffity and now you're juggling two guys?”

“I am not juggling! I do like Owen. Owen is amazing and beautiful and sends shivers up my spine. Anthony is just a friend. He's my lab partner, remember?”

“Your chem labs are a little more
hands-on
than ours,” Georgia said.

“Shut up. He probably had no intention of kissing me. I don't know what I was thinking. We were talking about our parents, and that stupid lemon pound cake kept prompting memories. I'm such a mess.” I tried not to cry. “And now I've screwed up one of the only friendships here that I really felt comfortable with.”

“Look,” Georgia said, “just explain to him that all the talk about your parents made you a little crazy. Anyone with an ounce of compassion would understand.”

“Yeah,” I said, thinking back to our conversation. “Anthony thinks I never tried to understand Mom's apology. He said I was afraid.”

It was silent on the other end.

“G?” I asked.

“Well, do you think maybe he has a point?”

I started to resist but stopped myself. I recalled the three months of numbness and inactivity. Was I subconsciously trying to avoid something that could possibly upset me?

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe. But isn't it too late? I can't go back and ransack the house now. I don't know how to
begin
to look for an answer.”

“Have you thought about asking Jolie?” Georgia asked. “They were sisters. And friends.”

“Right,” I said. “I guess that would be a start.” But my stomach turned just thinking about it. I sighed. “So what do I do about Anthony? How do we explain to the teacher why we no longer have our compound? Oh my God, he'll probably lose his scholarship for destruction of school property. This is a nightmare.”

“I know,” Georgia said. “Good luck.” We hung up.

I sat on the bed and stared at the phone for a while. Both Georgia and Anthony thought I was avoiding Mom's apology. I went to the living room and waited for Jolie to come home.

“Hey,” Jolie said, coming through the door and placing a pizza box on the table. “Did you get your lab done?”

“Not exactly.” I walked over and sat at the table with her, glancing around to be sure I'd cleaned up the spill well enough. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Jolie took a bite of pizza and handed me a napkin.

“Do you have any idea what Mom's apology meant?”

Jolie froze, a strand of cheese dangling from her lips. I guess she wondered why it took me almost four months to ask. She wiped her mouth, put her pizza down, and sat up a little straighter. “No,” she said. “I wish I did.”

“Oh,” I said, sounding defeated. For a moment I thought how nice it would be if the answer was here all along. “Did you keep our old address book so I could maybe call some of Mom's friends? Or do you remember the name of her college roommate?”

Jolie looked at me unblinking. “What's this all about?”

I drew circles with my finger in the remaining dusty compound debris on the kitchen table. “I'm just thinking about trying to find some answers. I mean I never really tried . . .”

Jolie's voice sounded stiff. “Em, we've worked so hard to move on and you're making great progress. I think digging for answers is a step in the wrong direction.”

“Don't you want to know what she meant?”

“Of course I do.” Jolie's voice softened. “I just don't know how we would ever be able to solve this mystery. I thought I knew everything about your mother, but some secrets are sacred, I guess.”

I nodded slowly. We finished our meal in silence.

 

THE NEXT MORNING,
I lugged Anthony's backpack to homeroom, but Anthony wasn't there.

The bell rang, so I lugged both bags on to history. Just when I decided he had dropped out of school to avoid me, I saw him slip in the door and quickly take his seat in front of me.

“Hey,” I whispered over his shoulder. “I have your bag. I'm really—”

“Thanks,” Anthony interrupted, and turned to grab it. Without making eye contact he swung back around and started scribbling furiously in his history notebook.

I've really screwed this up,
I thought as my stomach dropped.

Anthony sneezed.

I said, “Bless you,” but he didn't thank me, just nodded once.

It was obvious that he was still upset at my behavior.
Who wouldn't be?
I thought. I acted like a lunatic and I jeopardized his grade. Oh, yeah, and practically shoved him out of the apartment while screaming.

The bell rang and Anthony jumped up and raced down the hall.

My next four classes dragged. I couldn't concentrate on any lectures; instead my mind swarmed with possible options of how to explain to Anthony why I smashed the beaker. I could tell him the truth, but I didn't want anyone to think of me as the old tragic Emily with poor coping strategies. I wanted only to be the new Emily.

Sixth-period chemistry class finally arrived, and I decided I would simply apologize. No extraneous details, just,
I'm really sorry.
But Mrs. Klein split us into groups, and I had no interaction with Anthony. By the day's end I realized that there were a zillion ways to apologize to someone, but none of them mattered if you never opened your mouth.

AFTER MY EXHAUSTING
and unsuccessful day, I was outfitted in an old pair of velour sweatpants and planted on the couch with my laptop open and two frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts. If I couldn't rectify the Anthony situation, maybe I could unearth some answers about the apology. I started with a simple Google search. I typed in my mother's name, and four links popped up. A Columbia University alumni page, school board, and school PTA pages, and her name listed with a time for the 5K Turkey Trot. A lump formed in my throat. I stared at the screen. 24:08. That's how many minutes it took my mom to run the 5K. For some reason, seeing my mom in four little numbers made my heart hurt.