Tales From My Closet (21 page)

Before I even had time to think about it, I went downstairs and grabbed one of his baseball bats. The next thing I know, I was swinging it — smash, smash, crash, crash! “No! No!” Danny was yelling, but I barely heard him — or rather, his cries made me even angrier. I’d show him, the Little Jerk! How dare he ruin my peace of mind like that, interrupting my studies and my privacy with his incessant banging? When I felt him jump on my back, I flipped him around, and just like that, he fell, with a thud, onto the floor.

Returning to my own room, I caught sight of my own reflection — tall, dark, slim, with long dark hair and perfect clothes. Except for my face, which was blotched with red, I was perfect. Perfect in every way. So perfect that grown men stared at me and my own mother tried to keep me back. So perfect that it hurt. So perfect that the only thing I could do was destroy that perfection permanently. Smashing my fist into the glass, I watched as my perfect image shattered into dozens of fragments and fell on the floor. Though my hand was bleeding from a hundred different cuts, for the first time in almost a year, I felt no pain at all.

I
t never occurred
to me that Becka would freak out. But there she was, standing over Justine, screaming so hard that her eyes bulged and her face turned red, screaming so hard that, in the end, I felt like every kid in school was staring at us — at me and Justine, that is. Because even though we hadn’t signed our names to the blog, rumors were already spreading that we’d written it. Becka herself figured it out! I don’t know how she did, either; Justine and I had sworn not to tell anyone at school about it, and the only person who may have had some idea was Polly, but she’d been so wrapped up in her swimming Finals that she could think of nothing else.

“Uh-oh,” I said to Justine after Becka was finally gone. “I guess she read it.”

“Guess so.”

“She’s gone bonkers.”

“Honestly? Serves her right,” Justine said, stabbing the air with a knife.

“But, Justine!” I said. “She’s really upset. We shouldn’t have done what we did.”

“It was your idea, remember? Remember how you begged me to write it?”

“Yeah, but it was your idea to write about Becka’s raincoat. Oh God. I feel bad.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“But, Justine. She was
freaking
.”

“And you know what? We didn’t even say anything mean! What’s her major maladjustment, anyway? That girl’s a terrifying toad. Anyway, she had it coming to her.”

I just sat there, my mouth hanging open like I was at the dentist’s, as Justine stood up, gathered her things, and stalked out of the cafeteria.
Great
, I thought.
Just what I need. More drama.
As if the drama of Christmas week in Florida with my family hadn’t been bad enough.

To wit: We flew to Florida and took a taxi to our hotel. As usual, my sister and I were in the same room. The minute the door closed behind us, she turned to me and said: “Mama told me that she got you something special to wear for Debate Finals.”

“True.”

“And that she just can’t wait to see you up there.”

“Yup.”

“And that you’re so into it that you spend all your free time practicing.”

“I guess.”

“And that she’s so proud of you.”

“As she should be.”

Finally, with a slam of the closet, Martha turned to me and said: “And just what do you think you’re up to, anyway?”

“Meaning?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, little sister. Do you not remember that I was, in fact, on Debate Team? And that I did, in fact, go to Finals?”

“How could anyone forget? You’re still bragging about it.”

“Look, it’s better to tell me than to face them.”

“What? Tell you what?”

“Are you doing drugs?”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Because if you are — and I’m serious about this, Ann — just don’t. But, for God’s sake, if you are, you have to tell me! You have to tell someone! People ruin their lives with that stuff.”

“Really? Because no one’s ever told me that before.”

“Here’s something else no one’s ever told you: You are truly an idiot.”

“And you are truly a control-freak goody-two-shoes suck-up with a superiority complex who thinks she’s the boss of the world!”

Which was when something truly weird happened. My sister sat down on the bed, her shoulders slumping, and said: “Ann, we don’t have to be enemies, you know.”

“We don’t?” I snickered.

“Look, you might not know this, but you’re Mama’s favorite, and always have been. So why do you compete with me all the time?”

“Don’t you have it backward? First, it’s you who’s always putting me down, and second, I’m barely even a shadow of your shadow.”

She continued to sit there. Then she squeezed her eyes shut. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“What don’t I get?”

“Look, I took a class this semester, in psychology, and there I was, me, written up on the blackboard: the perfect firstborn kid who only wanted to please my parents.”

“Exactly. You’ve given them bragging rights from now until doomsday. All they talk about is their daughter who goes to
Princeton
.”

“Yeah, and now I’m stuck. I mean, what if I were to tell you that I’m not even sure I want to stay at Princeton?”

“
What?
”

“Do you have any clue how much pressure there is there?” There wasn’t a single crease on her perfectly pressed pink button-down blouse.

“Your choice.”

“Everyone is already gunning for law or medical school.”

“Including
you
.”

“I don’t know, Ann,” she said.

“Guess there’s a first time for everything,” I shot right back.

She started unpacking, taking one pastel-colored blouse after the other out of her suitcase, along with her white capris and polo shirts, her espadrilles and boat shoes. Her voice remained quiet when she said: “Look, I know you’re not on Debate Team, Ann. You’d hate Debate Team. Even
I
hated Debate Team. The only reason I did it was because Mama and Daddy thought it would help me get into college.”

By now I was unpacking, too: the fabulous red dress with the white flowers from Mama Lee, a pair of her polka-dot capris, a fabulous white sleeveless blouse with a midriff tie — all that great bonanza of bounty.

“You may not know it, but it’s you, not me, who has it good. First of all, just look at you, with your pixie thing going, your arty friends, your creativity.”

“Which makes me what? A giant loser.”

“No! It makes you
original
. I’ve seen your sketchbooks, Ann. You leave them all over the place.”

“I do?”

“Duh. You think it’s easy being your sister?”

For the first time in my life, I was speechless.

“I don’t see why not,” I finally said.

“Anyway,” she said with a little shrug of her Lacoste-covered shoulders, “you can tell me what you’re up to, or you can face the music when Daddy and Mama go to Debate Finals only to find out that you’ve played them. You may be able to fool Mama, but don’t try it on me. You couldn’t debate your way out of a wet paper bag.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? That I’m stupid?” Sincerity or no sincerity, I was angry at her all over again.

“It means that you don’t care about stuff like that — and why should you? If I had even an ounce of creativity, the last thing in the world I’d want to do is Debate Team.” She let out a long sigh. “Not to mention that you talk so much, and so fast, that no one can keep up with you!”

“You just love to put me down, don’t you?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” she said again. “I’ve tried to cover your butt with this stupid debate lie of yours for as long as I can, but it’s about to blow up in your face, and you don’t even know it.”

“Way to condescend to me again,” I said.

That’s when she burst into tears. “Why can’t you, for once in your life, just be
nice
to me?”

And with that, I felt awful. As in: really, really awful. Like I’d been mean to a five-year-old, or lit a dog’s tail on fire.

Which is when I just kind of melted, and told her about the blog that Justine and I were about to unveil, and how, when Mama and Daddy finally saw it, they’d be so proud of me that they’d be able to forget all about Debate Team.

When I was finally done explaining, she looked me dead on and said: “Let me get this straight. You concocted this entire stupid story about being on Debate Team because you’re afraid of telling Mama that you’ve been spending your afternoons in the
art room
? Why would she care? What are you, crazy?”

“But that’s just the thing!” I wailed. “She does care. Every time I mention art, she freezes and gives me this
look
like she’s going to get sick.”

“Oh, come on.”

“But it’s true! I’m supposed to be
you
.”

“What do I have to do, slap you so you’ll wake up? It’s easy for me, getting good grades. But you’re the one who’s just so cute and funny, and cracks everyone up all the time, and looks like Mama Lee — unlike me, who looks like Daddy! — and on top of all of that, you’re totally Mama Lee’s favorite, so much so that she even gave you all her beautiful clothes! As if I didn’t even exist!”

“But I thought you hated Mama Lee’s — my — clothes.”

“I love them,” she said.

Then she said: “But I couldn’t wear them anyway. I’m too big. But you would have thought that, just maybe, she would have let me have a hat or something. A pair of gloves, or a ring. Instead, you got everything.”

“Do you want some of mine?” I finally said.

“No. She gave them to you, not to me.”

I felt so sad that I almost hugged her. Instead, I said: “But that still doesn’t explain anything at all about why Mama is so weird about my doing anything even a little bit artistic, including in the way I dress!”

We’d come to a deadlock. Then my sister came out with the biggest whopper of all: “I was never, ever supposed to tell anyone this.”

“What?”

“It’s about Mama. About Mama and Mama Lee.”

Then she told me.

“When Mama was younger, she was secretly engaged to someone else — I mean, someone who wasn’t Daddy.”

“
What?
”

“He was an artist. And a lot older than she was. A whole lot older. In fact, he was an old boyfriend of Mama Lee’s. He used to come over to the house. That’s how Mama met him.”

“Mama dated an old boyfriend of Mama Lee’s? How is that even possible?”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer, but Martha continued. “Mama Lee didn’t know a thing about it, but Mama had started posing for him. For his paintings. She’d go to his studio, or wherever, after school. But she told Mama Lee she was doing something else, a school club, and with Mama Lee working, she didn’t even think to check up on her.”

“I don’t like where this is heading. . . .”

“First he painted her sitting in a chair, just gazing off into the distance.”

I bit my lip.

“Then he did a bunch of sketches.”

My stomach began to make noises.

“And then he did another portrait, this one just of her face.”

I was getting impatient: “So?”

“Finally, he did his famous painting of her. And when I say famous, I mean it. It’s in a museum somewhere, even.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It is. I swear, Ann, I’m not making this up. You can Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“Believe what?”

“The famous painting of Mama. It’s called
Black Beauty in Red and White Floral
.”

“Huh?”

“That red dress. With the white flowers. The one Mama Lee gave you.”

“What about it?”

“Mama’s wearing it in that painting. She took it from Mama Lee’s closet and posed in it. She thought she was going to marry that man. But he was still half in love with Mama Lee!”

“I think I’m going to lose my lunch.”

“The painting was in some gallery somewhere and Mama Lee found out about it and pitched a fit and then the whole story came out and she broke the two of them up but good.”

It was like someone had punched me in the stomach. I could barely think my own thoughts. Finally I said, “Mama told you this whole long story?”

“Yeah, and she made me promise not to tell anyone! She said even Daddy didn’t know all the details. And now I’ve gone and told you, and if she ever finds out, man, is she going to be angry.”

Suddenly my sister looked very, very tired, very old and worn-out and without hope. “Just don’t tell her you know,” she pleaded.

“But I still don’t get it!” I yelped. “Just because Mama wore that one dress for the painting and, well,
whatever
, doesn’t explain why she insists that I have to dress like the world’s biggest conformist and act like someone who’s never had an original thought or original impulse in her entire life.”

“Like me, you mean?” Martha said. Which is when I felt myself flushing hot and deep, and for the first time since I’d first met Justine, I wished I could, just for once, keep my big mouth shut forever.