Tales From My Closet (9 page)

“If only. Don’t you remember? We met, like, on the first day of school. In the bathroom, actually.” She was blushing a little. “You were, like —”

“I know,” I said, fingering Ann’s grandmother’s Lucite choker for extra protection. “My paper dress. I was trying to clean it.”

“Yeah. I loved that dress, too. It was awesome! But — I don’t know. It sounds stupid. But I could tell that you thought I had a huge butt. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t like you said anything.”

“But I thought that
you
thought I looked like a freak of death.”

“No way!”

Which was when Becka, at last, spoke. “Polly’s always thought she was too big,” she said. “When the truth, and everyone knows, is that she’s strong. Which is why she’s such a great athlete. Right, Pol?”

We both just looked at her. Arching her neck, Becka was like a swan among ducks.

Polly said, “That’s what my mother says. But I don’t know. I hate it!”

From the mom end of the table, Polly’s mother leaned in and said: “Tell her, girls. Because you know what? This child of mine is so self-conscious that she won’t even wear the white jeans she got for her birthday.”

“What?” Sidekick said. “But you’d look awesome in white jeans.”

“You totally would,” Becka said.

“That’s such a pretty scarf!” Polly then said, turning to Becka, and I could tell she was doing her best to be nice and to try to get the conversation going at something like a normal speed and temperature. Again I ran my hand around Ann’s turquoise Lucite beads, feeling their smoothness, like a reassurance that there was hope. “You always have the best stuff.”

“I got it last summer,” Becka said after a while, “in Paris. A friend gave it to me.” She fingered her scarf. Then, turning to me, she said: “But what I’d like to know? What I’d like to know is: What’s with your beads? Going for the dog-collar look? As in:
bark, bark
?”

“They’re my friend’s,” I said stupidly. “She lent them to me. I love them.” By now the whole table had gone silent.

“I was only joking,” Becka said. “Joking? Like I didn’t mean anything by it? Like ha ha? Lighten up.”

No one, including my bigmouthed mom, knew what to say. So we all just sat there in silence for an eternity or two until finally the waiter came to take our orders. Finally the conversation limped back, and my mother, using her fakest happy voice, said: “You know what’s so great about getting you girls together? All four of you are so into clothes. You have so much in common.”

“Mom,” I said, “that doesn’t mean anything except that we’re in high school.”

“Really,” Becka agreed, while next to me, I noticed Polly blushing, and instantly felt bad because it was obvious that I’d hurt her feelings.

When the food came, I could barely touch it, and even though Polly kept trying to get the conversation back on track, with Sidekick Girl attempting to help her, by the time I got back to my Puke-Pink Palace, I was too angry — at my mother, at myself, at Becka, at everyone — to do anything other than fume. Even my reflection in the mirror was fuming. Finally, I went online to check my email and Facebook. Eliza was like: “SO?????!!!!!” I had about a hundred messages from Ann. There were a few other random emails, too. There were also two messages from Dad, I didn’t even know where he was — San Francisco? (He still had some business there.) Detroit? Baltimore? In the first subject box, it said, “Hi, Pooky,” and went on to read, “Miss you. How’s school? How’s Mommy? Love you. Dad.” In the second subject box, it said: “For my sweetest.” That was funny, because Dad never called me “sweetest.” The message read: “Darling Sweetest — just to let you know that my last meeting will wrap up around eleven this morning, meaning that I should be able to catch an early afternoon plane to JFK and be in the city for dinner. Make a reservation? Billy.”
Billy?
— that was a good one. He hated being called “Bill,” let alone “Billy.” Mom, as well as everyone else we knew, called him “William.” I read the email about a dozen times before I understood that he’d sent it to the wrong email address — that it was meant for someone else. I could barely move, but just sat there, in front of my lit-up computer screen, staring at the message until there was a knock at the door and Mom popped her head in. “Actually,” she said, a little half smile on her face, “I thought that Becka was really quite nice.”

I
n early October
, a miracle happened. And when I say it was a miracle, I’m not exaggerating. Aunt Libby called and said: “How would you like to come to Paris with me over Christmas?”

“No way,” I said.

“Yes way. It’ll be my birthday present to you. Aren’t you going to be sixteen soon? That’s a big year.”

“You want
me
to go with you?”

“Do you know how lonely it is to be single in Paris over the holidays? But it’s the best time for me to go, when things are quiet in New York. So what do you say? Want to join me?”

Talk about a no-brainer. Unfortunately, Meryl didn’t see it that way. Hunched over her computer, she glanced up for about two seconds, shook her head, and said: “Look, honey, can we discuss this later? I’ve got a deadline.”

“You always have a deadline.”

“It’s for my next book,” she said. “It’s important.”

“
This
is important to me!”

“I need to discuss this with your father.”

“What do you mean, discuss?”

“Discuss the issues.”

“
Issues
? What issues? I’d be going with Aunt Libby!”

Instead of answering me, though, she returned to her computer and was so engrossed in whatever she was working on that she didn’t so much as glance up when I said: “I hope your computer explodes.”

It killed me, having to wait for Daddo to come home from work so I could tell him. So I didn’t. Instead, I called his office and when his receptionist answered I told her that I had to talk to him right away. A minute later, he was on the phone, saying, “What’s up, my sweet girl? Is everything okay?”

Of course I told him, right away, that things were fine at home and that there was nothing to worry about. Then I told him about Aunt Libby’s offer and Meryl’s twisted response, and he sighed and said: “Okay, honey. I understand. Let me deal with this one, okay?”

I knew something was up when, that night, Meryl came into my room with two glasses of cherry soda and sat on the end of my bed. But seriously? The cherry soda routine was getting old. As if she was going to coax me into telling her the truth, which was that I was in love. Because I knew exactly what she’d say:
Oh, I remember my first crush, too!
But my feelings for Arnaud were more than a crush, more than a schoolgirl’s passing whim. As the weeks had dragged by, I’d come to understand that I couldn’t be apart from him without something inside me dying.

“Honey?” Meryl said. “It’s been a while since we really talked.”

For a second, all I wanted to do was crawl into her lap and just spill everything, but as she handed me the cherry soda, I came to my senses. “Anything going on that I need to know about? I just hate to see you looking so sad.”

“But I
am
sad, Meryl,” I started to say. “I feel so — so bored. At school, everything is drama, drama, drama all the time, and I’m just not like that.”

“High school can be tough all right,” she said. “Which is why your dad and I agreed that you can go to Paris.”

“You mean it?”

“Yes, but with conditions.”

It was an old trick of hers — she’d take me to the movies only if I gave Lucy a bath, or she’d let me have a sleepover at Robin’s only if I folded the laundry. I wondered if she had any clue that I was no longer in elementary school.

“What kind of conditions?”

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Great. Blackmail. What is it this time?”

“I want you to come out to brunch.”

“Meaning?”

“You need to open yourself up to new friendships. I mean it, darling. I know how hard it is, being your age, wanting things, feeling all that inchoate yearning for something better, something more exciting than going to classes and doing homework.” I wanted to barf. Finally she spat it out. “We’re going to have brunch with Polly and her mother.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Robin . . . You sure you don’t want some soda?”

“No.”

“And someone else, too.”

“Let me guess: You’ve invited Ann Marcus, with whom, let me remind you, I haven’t been friends since first grade.”

“Not Ann. Justine. Justine and her mother. I invited them both and they’re coming.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“The girl is a freak. There’s just something about her, Meryl, the way she looks at me with her little doggie eyes, like she wants to bite me with her little doggie teeth.”

“That’s what I mean when I say that I’m worried about you. Your attitude isn’t helping you. I’ve met Justine, and frankly, I like her. She’s funny. She’s smart. I happen to think she’s cute. And Judy is a doll. . . .”

“
Judy?
”

“Judy Gandler — Justine’s mother. She’s terrific. Really. And she’s concerned, too, only, of course, about Justine. She says that Justine’s plain old lonely. That she doesn’t really hang out with anyone at all.”

“Her problem, Meryl. Not mine. And of course she’s lonely: She’s a freak! No one wants to be friends with her, not just me. Why are you shoving her onto me like this? I can’t stand the girl.”

I went anyway. I mean, what was my choice? Plus, at least Polly and Robin were going to be there, because even though Polly and I hadn’t been friends since middle school, she was cool, and Robin had been my best friend since forever. But the brunch was so horrible, with both Polly and Robin ganging up on me all because I made, okay, I admit it, this really stupid joke about Um’s necklace, which was supposed to be funny but just came out weird. Plus, could I help it if the girl reminded me of a cocker spaniel? Just because I said her choker necklace was like a dog’s collar, everyone acted like I’d called the girl an ugly loser from the bowels of hellacious hell. As I sat at that table, I felt more alone than ever.

Even Robin didn’t get me anymore. The next day, as we were walking home from school together, I said: “I can’t believe Meryl rigged up that stupid brunch in the first place. I mean, is she kidding me? Thank God you and Polly were there, is all I can say. But can you believe what that girl Um was wearing? What a weirdo. You’re so much nicer than I am, though, telling her how great she looked and all when you didn’t mean it. I’m just bad at those kinds of white lies.”

But Robin was like: “But I
did
like her outfit. I thought she looked really cute.” As for me, I’d worn my favorite Free People skinny-cut jeans, which I’d tucked into my favorite pair of boots — so called “riding boots” even though they weren’t for riding — made of black leather, which I’d bought at Macy’s of all places, and also, of course, my Hermès scarf, plus this sweet little knockoff Chanel-style jacket, and no one had made any kind of big deal over
my
fashion choices. That wasn’t even the point, though, because I really didn’t care. Now it was cold and misty with rain, and over my jeans and sweater I wore the raincoat that I’d forgotten to bring to Paris. And I know: A raincoat is only a raincoat, right? Wrong. Because this raincoat, my Donna Karan, was a fashion statement in and of itself, long and elegant and tailored, made of black cotton sateen, with a pleated back gathered together with a bow, square shoulders, and a tapered waist. Thank God I had it, too, because it was another horrible, cold, damp day. “Plus,” Robin said, “I like that she tries different things.”

“You would,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you like that kind of thing. Mixing things up. Right?” It was true, too. Ever since working at Aunt Libby’s last summer, Robin had been into wearing two or three necklaces together, mixing silver with gold, say. Or topping a beat-up jean jacket with a delicate scarf. Today she was wearing brown corduroy shorts over black tights, topped with an off-white scoop-necked long-sleeved winter undershirt with small buttons, her long hair pulled into a long, tight braid, and her feet in dark-purple suede boots. She was so out-there she was about to topple off the cliff, but managed to pull it off anyway. It was hard to believe that she was related to her twin brother, let alone her totally spastic cousin, John. “You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“I have to tell you something else,” I said.

“What?”

“Don’t kill me, okay?”

“What did you do?”

“
Nothing
. It’s what I’m
going
to do: Aunt Libby’s taking me to Paris with her in December.”

She just stared, her eyes growing the size of quarters. “Oh my God!” she finally said, dancing a little on her toes. “You’re so lucky. Paris! I’d kill to go to Paris with Libby Fine. I’d kill just to have that raincoat.” It was true, too. Ever since I’d first gotten it, Robin had lusted after my Donna Karan.

“She’s taking me for my sixteenth birthday.”

“Oh my God. You’re going to Paris with Libby Fine! You are the luckiest girl e
ver.”

“It
will
be amazing,” I agreed. “Especially since . . .”

“Since what?”

Until then, I hadn’t told anyone about Arnaud. Except for the girl I’d roomed with in Paris, who didn’t count, no one knew a thing. I took a deep breath. Then I said: “There’s someone there I want to see.”

“You mean a boy?”

That was so Robin. She still hadn’t gotten over the boy she’d dated two summers ago at sleepaway camp in the Berkshires!

“Arnaud isn’t a boy,” I said. “He’s — he’s a university student. He’s studying philosophy and might go to NYU for grad school.”

“OMG!” Robin said. “How old is he?”

“Twenty.”

“No way,” Robin said, her mouth dropping open. “That’s, like,
old
.”

“Do you want me to tell you or not?”

“Tell me.”

“But first you have to promise not to tell a soul. I mean it, Robin. Not one word. To
anyone.
Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

So I told her the story. I mean, not every detail, but the gist.
Including
the part about how badly Arnaud had wanted to go further than I had, how kissing him, as thrilling as it was, had become a kind of tug-of-war between his wandering hands and my buttons. Then I said: “I’m thinking that, this time — well, I think I’m ready to do it, to go all the way.”

“You’re thinking of doing
what
?”

“Why not? I’m almost sixteen.”

“So?”

“And he loves me.”

“Did he say so?”

“Well,” I fudged, “not exactly. But he’s
French.
It’s different there. They’re more sophisticated. More . . .” I finally settled on the word. “More subtle. Anyway, it’s not a big deal.”

“But it
is
a big deal,” Robin said. “It’s a huge deal. He’s old, Robin. A lot older than we are. And he lives in Paris! Have you ever thought that maybe he’d just be using you?”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“He’s in college, Becka. I mean — that’s a lot older than us. And how do you know he doesn’t have a girlfriend — a real girlfriend, I mean, in Paris?”

“But he loves me.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” I said.

“Do you have even one single piece of proof?”

Which is when I realized that I did. In fact, I had two: the raincoat and the beautiful, expensive Hermès scarf. “Actually,” I said, “I do. It’s wrapped around my throat.”

“OMG,” Robin said. “And your parents have no clue?”

“What are you? Ten?”

“But, Becka! Are you sure?”

“What makes you such an expert?” I said. “You’ve never even had a boyfriend, you spend all your time babysitting, and —”

“I have had a boyfriend. Andy Clarke!”

“Andy Clarke was in fifth grade.”

“And Louis Miller, from camp.”

“Robin, that was summer camp. You weren’t even in high school. Just think about . . .”

“About
what
?” She was turning pink, fluttering her eyelashes in this way she does when she’s nervous. I was going to point out that she’d worn pajamas all summer but decided to start again: “Look, Robin. You’re the only one who knows. Only, Robin?”

“What?”

“Seriously. Don’t tell anyone, okay? This is, like — my whole life.”

“Okay,” she promised.