The Poison Apples (15 page)

“You have
got
to be kidding me!” she said to my father.

He smiled modestly and toyed with his silverware.

The four of us were having dinner in the dorm, surrounding by other kids and their parents. Although my dad had initially seemed somewhat horrified by Molly Miller, it had taken him less than ten minutes to realize that she was, in fact, his favorite thing in the whole world: a fan. A fan who thought everything he said was fascinating, and every story he told hilarious. Now he was eating up the attention, and R. and I first were staring off in to the distance, bored out of our skulls.

“That just seems so unlike Sam Shepard,” Molly said, shaking her head.

“We writers are rarely who you readers think us to be,” answered my father, raising his eyebrows.

“When you were writing your first novel,” said Molly, putting her elbows on the table and propping her chin up with her hands, “how did you have the strength to keep going? How were you not totally consumed by self-doubt and anxiety?”

My father nodded. “I
was
totally consumed by self-doubt and anxiety. But I kept telling myself to just finish it, and then I could start tearing it apart. Writing is a delicate process.”

“Mm
hm
,” said Molly adamantly, as if she, too, had bravely plowed her way through a first novel.

“Also,” my father said, after a hesitating for a second, “my wife—my wife at the time, Susan—Alice's mother…”

I froze. I hadn't heard Dad mention Mom … since I could remember. At least since before he met R. I also felt R. freeze, across the table from me, and I watched her eyes slide slowly in Dad's direction.

Dad cleared his throat. “Susan was a novelist, too, and although she was already an established writer at the time, she was incredibly encouraging. She really believed in me, and I trusted her opinion. So that … that helped.” He nervously glanced over in R.'s direction. She shot him a tight-lipped smile.

Molly, in the meanwhile, had turned white. “Hold on,” she said, and turned to me for the first time since dinner started. “Your mom's name is Susan … and you're Alice Bingley-
Beckerman.
…”

I frowned at her. What was she getting at? “Uh-huh…,” I said.

“So your mom is—was—Susan Beckerman?”

I sighed. “Yes, Molly.”

“
The
Susan Beckerman?”

“Um, Susan Beckerman the writer, yes.”

Molly put a hand to her heart. “Oh my God. I cannot believe you didn't tell me that.”

“I told you that I had a mom, and that she—”

“But you didn't tell me who she was!”

I looked at Molly. “I'm sorry,” I said, aware of the iciness in my voice, “I thought I had.”

And then, refusing to look at her again, I went back to eating my horrible cafeteria meat loaf. Dad and R., in the meantime, had fallen into a traumatized silence. I could only imagine the fight that would erupt between them later that night in their hotel room.

Molly continued talking, not noticing the pall she had cast across the entire table. “That's just so weird. Because you'd think with your parents—I mean, your parents are like two of the greatest writers in the latter half of the twentieth century—you'd think that you, Alice, would be some kind of like crazy genius or something.”

I kept staring at my meat loaf, my cheeks hot with anger.

My father chuckled. “How do you know Alice isn't a genius, Molly?”

“Well—”

I stood up. “Excuse me,” I said. “I'm going to go get some dessert.”

I marched away from the table, gripping my tray so hard that my knuckles turned white.

Clearly Molly Miller wasn't my friend at all.

She was just a brown-nosing fan.

Now I had zero friends. Zero friends and no real family to speak of.

“Hey, Alice,” someone said.

I looked up. Of course. It was Reena, standing at the salad bar, looking stunning in a yellow off-the-shoulder top.

“Hi,” I said sullenly.

“Are those your parents?” she asked, pointing in the direction of my table. I looked. Molly was still chatting away, R. looked like she was going to kill somebody, and Dad was staring uncomfortably into his lap.

“Oh,” I said. “Um, no. Those are, um, Molly Miller's parents.”

She squinted. “Really? That isn't how I imagined them.”

I laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah. I know. It's strange. They're, like, really weird people. Kind of crazy.”

She looked at me, and for a second it looked like a wave of insecurity passed over her face, although I had no idea why.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “Crazy. Sure.”

“Where are your parents?” I asked. This was maybe the longest conversation we'd ever had with each other. Somehow we'd manage to communicate entirely through disdainful grunts whenever we were alone in our room together.

She flushed. “Um. Oh. I…”

Suddenly, for no particular reason, her cafeteria tray slipped out of her grasp, and her plastic cup went clattering to the ground. Apple juice started spreading in a puddle across the linoleum floor. I bent down and began mopping it up with my napkin. Reena squatted down, too, and distractedly dabbed at the spill with a tissue.

“They're not here,” she said.

“Who?”

“My parents. They … went out to dinner.”

We both stood up.

“Why didn't you go with them?” I asked.

Her face dropped. “Oh. I … I wanted to eat with Kristen.”

Without even thinking, I looked around the cafeteria, trying to spot Kristen's distinctive red hair.

“She's outside!” blurted Reena. “She's outside! I actually have to meet her there right now!”

And, putting her tray down on the salad bar and just leaving it there, she scurried out of the cafeteria.

I stared after her, and for a minute I was distracted enough to forget about my horrible family and the traitorous Molly Miller.

There was definitely something weird going on with Reena Paruchuri.

And I wanted to find out what it was.

ELEVEN

Reena

She was wearing a sari.

Even worse, it wasn't a real sari. It was the kind of sari middle-age white ladies buy at their local “exotic goods” shop. You know—those shops that sell incense and mood rings and wind chimes and books telling you about whether your astrological sign is compatible with someone else's astrological sign. And random “foreign” objects, like vests covered in mirrors and tablecloths with little African elephants all over them.

Saris, in case you didn't know, are the traditional garment worn by Indian women. They're basically like this long rectangle of fabric that goes down to your feet, and you wrap it around your waist and sling it over your shoulder. I've only worn a sari a few times in my life, like whenever there's a wedding thrown by any of my more traditional cousins or family friends. But my mother wears one almost every day. And, you know—I hate to admit it—because they're like the opposite of what you're supposed to wear if you're a cool Los Angeles high school student—saris can actually look kind of sexy.

Obviously Shanti Shruti had figured this out.

Her sari was hot pink, and made out of this cheesy shiny synthetic fabric (my mother wore saris made only from cotton or silk). It had little sparkly beads sewn around the hem, and it made this horrible swishy, chime-y sound when she walked.

So when she and my father entered the pizza parlor on the edge of town (a meeting spot that Pradeep and I had come up with together, hoping to avoid as many of our peers as possible), my jaw dropped. Then I turned and looked at Pradeep, who was sitting next to me, and saw that he was shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

“Hello, my dears,” said my father.

He looked exactly the same. Big white hair, big white beard, gray suit jacket, pot belly, khaki pants.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, and I awkwardly stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

Pradeep didn't stand up. After a silent standoff—he and my father stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute, unblinking, each Paruchuri man refusing to back down—my father grabbed Pradeep's shoulder and shook it. Then he tousled Pradeep's hair.

“Hello, son,” my father said.

“Mmrf,” said Pradeep. He bent over and shoveled half of his pizza slice into his mouth.

Shanti stepped forward and tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear, smiling nervously. Then she threw her arms around me. We were exactly the same height.

“You look
so
beautiful,” Shanti whispered.

I broke out of the hug, and she held me out at arm's length.

“Wow,” she said, “I am totally intimidated by how beautiful you look.”

Ew. Gross. First of all, I didn't believe her. Shanti looked like an almost impossible mix of a Barbie doll, Gywneth Paltrow, and a swan. Second of all, I didn't look any different than I had during the summer. Third, she was my stepmother. She was supposed to be old and wise and kind, not intimidated by how beautiful I was.

But maybe that was unavoidable. After all, she was barely out of college.

Shanti turned away from me and looked at Pradeep.

“Hi, Pradeep,” she said sweetly.

Pradeep picked up a jar of oregano and began sprinkling it over his pizza slice. He didn't look up.

“Pradeep,” my father said.

Pradeep put down the jar of oregano. “Nice sari,” he said, still avoiding eye contact.

I watched Shanti's face flush red. “Um, thanks,” she said. She leaned against my father and rested her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair.

We all paused there for a minute, silent: Pradeep sitting at the table, me and Dad and Shanti standing up, no one sure what to do next.

I actually heard the guy behind the counter flip a piece of dough up into the air and catch it.

“It is nice to see both of you,” my father said stiffly.

Pradeep coughed into his hand. It seemed like a fake cough, but I wasn't sure.

“You, too, Dad,” I said.

Pradeep peered up at me resentfully.

“I would like to see where you two live,” my father said to us.

I winced. There was a good chance Alice Bingley-Beckerman's parents wanted to do the same thing. And I really, really,
really
didn't want them—or Alice—to see or meet or even come within a hundred of miles of my father and Shanti Shruti.

I tried to sound casual. “Oh, the dorm isn't that interesting. Just little rooms, you know, and bunk beds … Wouldn't you rather just go out to dinner or something?”

Shanti shook her head. “No, no,” she said. “I'm dying to see the inside of Middleton Dorm again.”

I blinked. “Again?” I asked.

“I lived in Middleton
my
first year,” she told me excitedly. “Remember? I'm a PMM alum.”

Oh, yeah. That was how I'd ended up in freezing-cold Massachusetts in the first place. I nodded. Then she leaned forward and grabbed my arm. “I'll show you how to sneak boys into your room,” she whispered, “if you haven't figured it out yet.”

“Shanti!” exclaimed my father.

“What?”
she asked, and giggled again in her horrible way. Then she and my father gazed at each other, their eyes dancing. Shanti reached out and toyed flirtatiously with my father's hairy earlobe.

Barf.

An idea dawned on me. I looked at my watch. It was 4:30
PM
. The Welcoming Ceremony was at 7:00
PM
. Most of the kids and their parents would probably be there, including Alice and her parents. If we could all go see Pradeep's room now, and then eat an early dinner, and then skip the ceremony, and go up to my room when no one was going to be there …

I proposed my ingenious plan.

“That way,” I finished, “you guys don't have to sit through Headmaster Oates's really boring welcome speech. It'll put you to sleep.”

My father looked dubious.

“Dad. Seriously. Trust me.”

He shrugged. “Fine. I don't care.”

“I don't care either,” said Shanti, “as long as I get to see Middleton at some point before I go.”

Pradeep looked at me like I was crazy.

“Trust me,”
I mouthed to him.

Pradeep sighed. “Whatever Reena wants,” he said grouchily.

My plan was working.

Maybe I was going to get through Parents Weekend after all.

*   *   *

Two hours later,
I stood out on the green lawn in front of the cafeteria, panting.

I had just narrowly avoided another Alice Bingley-Beckerman-meeting-my-parents disaster.

I stared up at the darkening sky and tried to calm down.

First of all, why did Alice Bingley-Beckerman also have to be in the cafeteria eating an early dinner?

But more important, why was she eating an early dinner with Molly Miller's family? Where were her parents?

I had just told Alice that I was meeting Kristen outside and had basically just made a run for it.

But Kristen was in Connecticut for the weekend. What if Alice knew that?

Once again, I was starting to drown in an ocean of my own lies.

My family was still inside the cafeteria, waiting for me to come back from the salad bar. But I couldn't come back. Not until I was sure that Alice Bingley-Beckerman had left the building.

Shivering—I'd left my jacket inside—I leaned against the trunk of a big maple tree and waited. And waited. After a few minutes, my cell phone rang. I took it out of my pocket and answered without looking at it.

“Hello?” I asked.

There was a long pause. Then, in a barely audible whisper: “Is she there?”

“Mom?”

An exasperated sigh. “Yes, it's me. I'm asking you a question.
Is. She. There?
”