Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend (12 page)

I usually get nervous when people do religious stuff because
we never do it at home, but I can handle saying grace at Thanksgiving. Mr. Gerren asked us all to think of something we were
grateful for, something we couldn’t imagine our lives without, and
I immediately thought of Jamie. And then I wondered, if Jamie is
the first person I thought of, why am I keeping my distance just
because he said I should, when maybe he could use my help?
“Rose?” Jamie says. He smiles but his eyes look tired. He’s
flipping the phone over in his hand faster now, and I realize
that he’s waiting for a phone call. Probably from Regina. “You
sounded good up there.”
I scoff. It’s embarrassing to have people tell you that you were
good when you were in the chorus. I mean, who watches the
chorus?
“What, you don’t believe me?”
I shrug. “It’s nice of you to say, but, you know, I just have a
small part.”
“Yeah, but I could hear you.”
I almost tell him that that means I didn’t do it right, but instead, I move closer to him and angle myself so that no one will
be able to hear what I’m about to say.
“I can’t stop thinking about what you told me, Jamie.”
His gaze scans behind me before his eyes settle back on mine,
giving me what I assume is permission to continue talking about
this.
“Were you—were you scared? When you did what you did?”
His eyes seem to soften a tiny bit, but he doesn’t answer. “It’s just,
I’m worried, about you, and about what you’re doing. Shouldn’t
you maybe not be so close to the Deladdos—”
I don’t get to finish the question. “Things are bad for them.”
“How could things be worse for them now than before you
did what you did?”
“Don’t worry about—”
When Jamie’s phone rings, he steps away from me so fast it’s
like he got an electric shock or something. He holds up his hand
in apology as he listens. Then Angelo looks up, and Jamie nods
at Angelo over my head, waving him over. He puts his phone
back in his pocket and says, “I gotta go. You were great, Rose.”
“Yeah, man, you were awesome,” Angelo says. “And Trace, if
I’m gonna be, like, the star model on your blog, email my agent.
He’s gonna want his ten percent.”
Angelo winks at Tracy, and he and Jamie go down the hallway. I have a bad feeling about whatever it is they’re going to do.
A really bad feeling.
“Hey, Rose!” Angelo yells when they get to the door. “Tell the
redhead I say she’s totally hot. Tell her I’m gonna be on Tracy’s
thing, okay? And give her my number!”
“Where are they going?” Tracy asks as they disappear through
the door.
I shake my head. It used to be exciting when Jamie walked
away from me without answering my questions. Then it became
annoying. But tonight, it’s actually scary. Jamie and Angelo have
some sort of plan, and I’ll bet anything it has to do with Regina
and Anthony.
“Girls,” my mother calls to Tracy and me. “The Taylors have
invited us all out for dessert at Morton’s. Would you like to go?”
she asks, looking directly at me, clearly hoping that I’m going
to say yes.
The idea of spending any more time watching Dirk Taylor get
his picture taken just to inflate his ego and impress my mother
while Robert inserts himself into every photo op sounds so gross
that I might throw up right here. I want to say no, but Tracy
throws an elbow into my ribs and answers for me.
“That sounds great, Mrs. Zarelli. Thanks, Mr. Taylor,” she says
graciously, trying to make up for the scowl on my face. “We’ll
just go get Rose’s stuff and meet you at Morton’s in a few minutes.
Let’s
go,
Rose,” she says before I can open my mouth.
I gape at Tracy but she doesn’t have to utter a word for me to
hear her saying,
Your mother deserves some fun. Don’t be a bitch.

Robert tightens his scarf around his throat, buttons his jacket
and takes Holly’s mittened hand in his. Dirk makes a show of
bending over to pick up the leather glove my mother dropped
and then escorts her out the door—his hand on her elbow—
into the cold December night. I’ve never seen any man but my
father take my mother’s arm, and it’s hard not to give Dirk Taylor
a shove that will send him sprawling onto the icy sidewalk, and
tell him that the last thing in the world my heartbroken mother
needs is some movie star messing with her head while grief for
my dad obviously has her so confused she doesn’t know what’s
real and what’s fake.

If my dad could see her right now, what would he do? What
would he say?
Can
he see her right now?
I hope not, for his sake.
Just as I feel tears coming, Tracy slips her arm through mine
and says, “She’s a big girl. She can handle it.”
Well, I’m glad somebody can.

“
You
told her we would go, Trace. I didn’t. I didn’t say anything about having dessert with Dork Taylor.”
Tracy pulls up to the stoplight at the parking lot exit and puts
on the right-turn signal. “Rosie, don’t be like that. He’s not that
bad.”
I see the dessert caravan about a block away, heading to Morton’s. I suddenly know that I am not going. Even if I have to open
the door and throw myself out of a moving car.
“He’s not that
bad?
He’s so cheesy, it’s embarrassing.”
“I think he’s kind of charming.”
Of course you do. Because he’s going to look great on your blog.
I pointlessly kick at the bunched-up floor mat under my feet,
trying to flatten it out, even though I know there are magazines
living under there.
“Rosie, your mom will be hurt if we don’t go.”
“Mr. Hollywood will make her feel better. Oh, my god. You
don’t think he named Holly after Hollywood, do you? Because
that would be pathetic.”
“Let’s just go to Morton’s for a few minutes and then leave,
okay?”
“Trace, I don’t want to watch my mother flirt with that asshole.”
Tracy is quiet—my swearing probably surprised her. Swearing is not my favorite mode of expression—my dad drilled into
our heads the concept that there is always a better, more expressive word than a swearword—but I have to admit that swearing
feels good sometimes. And if you do it sparingly, it really gets
people’s attention.
After a pause, Tracy says with that annoying calm that she
seems to have mastered this year, “Your mom wasn’t doing the
flirting. Dirk Taylor was.”
“It takes two,” I grumble.
“You know what, Rosie? You’re being selfish.”
Tracy might as well have just slapped me. “
I’m
being selfish?
My dad’s been dead for a year and a half! That’s
eighteen
months!
And she’s already…she’s already…”
I can’t finish the sentence or I’ll start crying.
Usually when I get into irrational mode about my mother—
or crying mode over my father—Tracy is helpful and nice and
knows just what to say.
But not this time.
“She’s already what, Rose? Talking to a guy? Letting him pick
up something she dropped? Going out for dessert with him and
a bunch of other people?”
“Getting her picture taken with his arm around her for everyone in the world to see!” I snap.
I grab the iPod that’s plugged into the car’s sound system and
start scrolling.
Willow…Sugarland…Neon Trees…
Tracy’s taste in music drives me crazy sometimes.
Ke$ha…Enrique Iglesias…
Eminem with Rihanna. Perfect.
There’s nothing like Eminem when you’re pissed off. His fury
reaches through the speakers and jams itself down your throat.
You can practically taste it. He always sounds like he’s half a second away from punching someone. I like that.
That’s
the kind of singer I want to be—not some stupid chorus girl in a musical going “la la la” in harmony.
I wonder: Can a girl sing the way Eminem raps?
I turn the volume up so loud it feels like my ears are going to
bleed. Tracy uses the volume control on the steering wheel to
turn it down, but she leaves it just loud enough.
She’s about to turn right out of the parking lot and start toward Morton’s—and I’m trying to figure out the safest way to
launch myself out of a moving car—when Jamie’s car flies by,
heading in the other direction.
I lean forward, watching his taillights. Before I can say anything, Tracy looks at me in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“
You
wanted to know where they were going.”
“First of all, you’re the one who wants to know where they’re
going. I couldn’t care less. Second of all—”
A car behind us honks, annoyed that we’re sitting still at a
green light.
“If you follow them so we can find out where they’re going,
I’ll come to Morton’s,” I lie.
“We shouldn’t be anywhere near wherever they’re going.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
I resent the implication that Jamie and Angelo are automatically up to no good, just because of who they are. Although in
this case, I know Tracy’s right—something’s going on, and we
should
stay away from it.
The car honks again, longer this time.
“They’ve both been arrested at least once. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Five minutes. Then Morton’s.”
Tracy sighs dramatically, like I’m asking for the moon. Then
she switches her turn signal and guns the Prius, flying out into
the intersection.
I calm down as the possibility of dessert at Morton’s gets farther and farther away in the rearview mirror.
I grab the iPod again and turn up the volume, leaning back
into the seat as the angriest voice on the planet drills into my
brain. Caron says I’m not supposed to indulge my anger without
trying to understand it.
Caron can go F herself.
For a while, Tracy just looks bored and annoyed as we follow the guys into the rich part of town. She’s just about to say
she’s not going to follow them anymore when we turn onto Matt
Hallis’s block.
That’s when things get interesting.
Jamie and Angelo pull up in front of Matt’s house. It’s a beautiful, huge colonial with white lights in the pine trees on either
side of the front door and garlands stretched across the top of
the portico. There’s a massive Christmas tree in one of the front
windows, and the colored lights reflect off the hood of Matt’s
white sports car, which is sitting in the driveway. There are a
bunch of other cars I sort of recognize—it looks like the swim
team is hanging out at Matt’s tonight.
Without talking, Tracy turns off her headlights and we idle
in her silent Prius by the curb a few houses away. I sink a little
lower in my seat as we watch Jamie and Angelo get out of their
car, but they’re focused on someone with a backpack who comes
out to meet them from behind the bushes separating the Hallis
property from the neighbors.
The three of them talk for a few seconds, and then Jamie
holds up his hands and shakes his head as if he’s disagreeing
with something. He and Angelo step back as the figure drops
the backpack to the ground and starts to rifle through it. When
the figure stands up and moves out of the shadows, the overhead
streetlight reveals Conrad, holding a can of spray paint.
He shakes the can hard for a few seconds and motions to
Jamie and Angelo. Jamie crosses his arms and looks down at the
ground, then slowly turns to face the house. Angelo faces the
street. It’s like they’re standing guard.
Which—I realize as Conrad takes the top off the can and
starts to spray-paint Matt’s car—is exactly what they’re doing.
“Oh, my god,” Tracy says. “They are going to kill him this
time—
for real
kill him.”
We’re far enough away that we can’t see what Conrad’s doing,
but whatever it is, it must be elaborate because it’s taking a long
time. When a minivan turns onto the street, Conrad ducks down
behind Matt’s car while Angelo lights a cigarette and pretends to
be having a normal conversation with Jamie. When the minivan
passes, Conrad jumps back up and grabs another can of spray
paint from his backpack and the guys go back to their posts.
Conrad climbs onto the hood of the car to work on the roof,
leaning forward and lying on the windshield to reach every inch
of it. The light from the streetlamps illuminates him in his black
sweatshirt, his hood pulled up over his head, his arm working
furiously—a pissed-off graffiti artist trying to finish before he
gets caught.
When he’s finally done, he jumps off the hood and jams everything in his backpack. He heads toward Jamie’s car with Jamie
and Angelo, then stops short, runs back to Matt’s car, climbs on
the hood and jumps up and down until the car alarm goes off.
Jamie and Angelo freeze for a second and then sprint to Jamie’s
car and climb inside. Jamie starts it up, yelling out the window at
Conrad who leaps off the hood of Matt’s car. Conrad is barely in
the backseat before Jamie hits the gas. I see him struggling to get
the back door closed without falling out as they round the corner.
“Go, Trace,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper.
As we zoom past Matt’s driveway with the headlights off, we
can see—in huge, black block lettering on the hood, the roof
and the sides of the once-perfect, shiny white sports car—the
words
faggot, fag
and
homo.

I’d rather pour the wine directly on my mother’s beautiful
white linen tablecloth and watch it spread like a bloodstain in a
mob movie than pass it to Dirk. But I fight the urge to mess with
this dinner that my mother—who pretty much hasn’t stopped
smiling since she met Mr. Hollywood—has been planning for
days.

My mother invited the Taylors to Christmas Eve at our house
under the guise of being a good neighbor. “They probably don’t
know a lot of people in town yet and it might be nice for them
to celebrate with new friends,” she’d said by way of explanation,
as if half of Yale University hadn’t been clamoring to spend the
holiday with a movie star.

But—lucky us—Dirk chose to accept my mother’s invitation.
I pick up the bottle and try to hand it to Dirk, who is sitting
to my right. Robert—who apparently is now part of the Taylor
family and goes wherever they go—is sitting on the other side
of Dirk. He reaches across Dirk, nearly knocking over a candle,
and takes the bottle from me. He pours, because, of course, Dirk
can’t possibly be expected to pour for himself.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d be way more annoyed than I am. But
I was awake half the night, freaked out, depressed, frustrated
and furious—freaked out about Conrad, who I think, based on
what I found online at three in the morning, may have committed a felony; depressed about Jamie, who hasn’t called me back
even though I’ve left him two messages saying that I know what
happened and I need to talk to him; frustrated that no one has
posted any comments or messages on Dad’s site for weeks now;
and furious that my brother still hasn’t called or emailed to say
whether he is going to bother coming home for Christmas.

One of those alone would be enough to keep me awake. All
four nearly drove me insane. And now I feel like I might just
crash right here at the table. Or under it.

“Rose,” Dirk says in that baritone voice that makes me all itchy,
“are you interested in film at all?”
I consider saying no so that the conversation will end before
it even starts, but when Robert’s head snaps up from his plate
in sheer panic, I suddenly want to find out what Dirk is talking about.
“I like movies,” I say noncommittally, stifling a well-timed,
completely spontaneous yawn.
“Ooh, Rose, you should totally come to our film club! That’s a
great idea!” Holly says, looking perfect in a cranberry-red sweater
with extra-long bell sleeves that Tracy would take a picture of in
a heartbeat. “You, too, Mrs. Zarelli! It’s so fun.”
“Holly, please, call me Kathleen.” My mother smiles uncomfortably. I guess hearing her married name doesn’t go that well
with making dinner for a man who’s not my dad.
I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to stand all this.
I yawn again.
“What a great idea! Kathleen, you and Rose should come.
Every Thursday night my students and I watch an award-winning
film and discuss it.”
Dirk smiles hopefully at me as if he actually cares whether
I join the film club, and because of all that oozing charisma, I
almost fall for it. But I know he’s just thinking that if I join, my
mother’s more likely to join, too. And then he’ll have the perfect
excuse to spend even more time with her.
Robert, on the other hand, looks totally freaked by the possibility that I might join the film club. In a moment of Christmas
spirit, I see things from Robert’s point of view and feel sorry for
him. The Taylors are the closest thing Robert has had to a family
in a long time. I’m sure the last thing he wants is to have someone around who could potentially destroy that for him.
Well, luckily for Robert, my desire to keep my mother away
from Dirk is much stronger than my desire to get back at Robert for lying about me.
“So what do you think, Rose?” Dirk says.
“Would we be watching your movies?” I ask, trying to sound
as innocent as possible. My mother gives me the sternest glance
she can muster without being obvious, but Dirk just laughs.
“If we only watched my award-winning films, Rose, the club
would have ended after one week.”
“That’s not true, Dad. You’ve been in movies that have won
Oscars, BAFTAs and Palme D’ors,” Holly says, beaming at Dirk,
looking genuinely proud.
I’ve never seen Holly look at her dad like this, and it surprises
me because I thought she found the whole Hollywood thing to
be a bummer. As I watch Dirk put his arm around her and give
her a squeeze, loss crushes me.
I haven’t felt this in a while. I haven’t had the chance. Thinking about Dad has usually meant fighting off horrific images in
my head, so I haven’t let myself think about him that much. But
grief for the man who should be sitting next to me at the table—
where Dirk Taylor is sitting instead—is about to fill up my lungs
and drown me in front of everyone.
I stand up to bail just as we all hear the sound of a key unlocking the front door.
My mother freezes. I can see her taking mental inventory of
the family and realizing that there’s only one person who could
be unlocking the front door on Christmas Eve. Her face lights
up with hope.
I get to the door about five seconds ahead of my mother, just
in time to see Peter standing there, looking like he hasn’t eaten
all semester.
Tracy is next to him, fidgeting.
I blink. I don’t understand why Tracy’s here. Next to Peter.
“Peter!” my mother exclaims, sounding happy, mad and worried all at once.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” he says, leaning over to give her a
hug. He’s still got the super-dark shadows under his eyes that he
had this summer, but at least his eyes aren’t glazed over. They’re
surprisingly clear.
Over Mom’s shoulder, as he continues to hug her because she
won’t let him go, Peter is studying my face in the same way that
I’ve been studying his. “Hey, Rosie. You look like you’re falling
asleep standing up.”
My head is going to explode. How can he just talk to me like
that, after totally blowing me off since September? I ignore him
and turn to Tracy.
“What are
you
doing here?”
I sound way angrier than I intend to, and she looks taken
aback. “I just… I was on my way over to talk to you and I ran
into Peter in front of the house.”
Peter looks down at her and gives her a small smile. “It’s good
to see you, Trace.”
What? I
look like I’m falling asleep standing up but it’s good
to see
her?
“Hello, there. You must be Peter,” comes Dirk’s voice from behind us. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extends his hand into our
happy little group to offer one of those manly handshakes of his.
Peter’s expression goes from confusion to recognition to surprise and back to confusion as he shakes Dirk’s hand. “Uh, hi,”
he replies eloquently.
“Peter, this is Dirk Taylor. He and his daughter, Holly, are new
to town and they’re having dinner with us tonight. Holly is one
of Rose’s classmates,” my mother explains, leaving out the whole
movie-star thing. “We were just about to have dessert. Why don’t
you two come sit down?”
My mother says this as if it’s the most normal thing in the
world to say “you two,” meaning Peter and Tracy.
“Actually, Mom, I need to talk to you,” Peter says. “You, too,
Rose.”
“Kathleen, we’ll clear the dishes and get dessert ready. Take
your time. Nice to meet you, Peter.”
“Likewise, Mr. Taylor,” Peter says, looking slightly awestruck.
Barf, barf,
barf.
“Here, take off your things,” my mother says. When Peter takes
off his hat, his crazy hair springs out and he suddenly looks more
like Dad than ever. I practically have to step back from him. My
mother also sees it—I can tell by the way she stares before she
takes his coat and hat.
Nothing wrong with my mom being reminded of Dad while
Dirk Taylor is washing dishes in her kitchen.
Tracy, still next to Peter, is now shifting from foot to foot, her
high-heeled boots clacking on the floor, her long, striped scarf
tied in a perfect knot around her neck.
“I came to talk to you about something, Rose, but I’ll just call
you later,” she says hesitantly, obviously not wanting to leave.
“No, Trace, it’s okay. Stay.” Peter gives her another one of those
smiles and I suddenly know that whatever bad thing Peter’s about
to tell us, Tracy already knows.
I realize that the hard pinch I’ve been feeling in my stomach
since the front door opened is jealousy.
I’ve been mad at my best friend, and I’ve been hurt by my
best friend, but there’s something about this that feels worse.
Way worse.
The four of us go into the living room, my mom still oblivious
to the fact that Peter’s about to run her over with a freight train.
“Mom, I have to take a semester off,” Peter says before she’s
even sitting down.
Her smile slides right off her face.
“No, that’s not a good idea, Peter. Structure is good for you
right now.”
I nearly laugh out loud. What
structure
is she referring to, exactly? The structure of partying every night and then sleeping
through class? The structure of doing serious drugs with his girlfriend?
That
structure?
“It’s not…optional,” Peter says.
My mother looks puzzled but I get it instantly. I wait to see if
Peter is going to elaborate but he’s too chicken to do it so I step in.
“What he’s saying, Mom, is that he got kicked out of school.”
“That is not what I’m saying,” Peter replies, irritated. “I’ve just
been asked to take a semester off.”
“Why?” my mother says.
“Because he’s been partying instead of studying,” I answer. I
can’t help myself.
“Rose, stop answering for your brother.”
“Tell her I’m wrong, Peter,” I challenge, not looking at my
mother.
For a second, it seems like Peter’s going to tell me to F-off, but
he shakes his head slowly.
“You’re not wrong,” he admits.
“Rose Zarelli,” my mother says, turning on me. “You lied to
me.”
He
just got kicked out of school and she’s mad at
me?
I jump up off the couch, outraged. “
I
lied? What are you—
How do you even—”
“You’ve been telling me for months that you haven’t talked
to Peter!”
“She hasn’t, Mrs. Zarelli,” Tracy says in my defense, even
though it’s not true. “I know she hasn’t.”
The sound of Tracy’s voice in the middle of a private family
conversation infuriates me.
“Why are you even here?”
“She’s defending you, Rose,” Peter says. “Don’t be such a bitch.”
“Peter!” my mother shouts.
Our resident movie star leans into the room from the doorway. “Kathleen? Is everything okay?”
He looks at her with an expression of grave concern that he’s
probably perfected over the years by practicing in a mirror.
My mother, horrifically embarrassed, swallows and smiles.
“Fine, Dirk. We’re just settling a disagreement. I’ll be there in
a minute.”
With another perfectly executed look, this one of sympathy,
Dirk disappears into the kitchen, where it sounds like Holly and
Robert are loading the dishwasher.
The exhaustion-rage combo is making me feel wired—
everything seems surreal. My eyes land on my phone, which is
sitting on the coffee table where I left it during the excruciating
hors d’oeuvre course.
“If you haven’t been in touch with Peter, how do you know
what happened?” my mother asks.
If Peter hadn’t called me a bitch, I might not be so ready to
show her what’s on my phone.
But he
did
call me a bitch.
I grab my phone and see that I missed three text messages
from Tracy earlier. I go straight to the photos. I sit down next
to my mother and show her the one image of Peter’s that I kept.
Her face goes pale.
Peter, recognizing his old iPhone, jumps up. “What are you
doing?”
He grabs my hand and twists the phone toward him so he
can see what I’m showing her.
It’s the photo of Peter and Amanda leaning across a coffee table
toward each other with those weird little straws in their hands.
Everything goes quiet while we all process what’s happening.
Peter sits down on the other side of my mother, staring daggers at me over her head.
“I asked you to erase my photos.”
“Why would you give me your phone with
that
on it?” I shoot
back.
My mother’s hands fly to her mouth and she closes her eyes.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Mom. I just have to take some
time off, but they’ll let me go back. Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t worry about it?” she says. She snatches the phone out
of my hand and shoves the picture in Peter’s face. “Are you addicted?”
Peter scoffs. “It’s college, Mom. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t call her ridiculous!” I say. “You don’t think we knew
what was wrong with you when you were home this summer?
You’ve been going out with that junkie for—”
“She’s not a—” Peter stops himself. “God, Rosie, sometimes
I forget just how young you really are. Go help in the kitchen,
okay? I need to talk to Mom alone.”
Steam practically comes out of my ears.
“
Young?
You’re the one who’s doing drugs just to impress a girl
who is out of your fucking league!”
“Rose!” my mother says, unaccustomed to hearing me drop
the F-bomb. “It’s Christmas Eve!” she adds, as if this has some
relevance.
Right on cue, the Christmas carol playlist goes back to the
beginning and “Jingle Bells” starts again.
Peter looks over at Tracy, who stands up as if he has just communicated with her telepathically.
“I have to talk to you, Rosie. Please?” Tracy pleads.
Without answering her, I grab my phone from my mother and
stomp up to my room, knowing that Peter somehow enlisted
my
best friend to help him deliver this news, and that she is on
his
side. Tracy follows me and stands in the doorway looking guilty.
It’s all I can do not to slam the door in her face.
“Why do you know about this? Have you been talking to him
behind my back?” I demand.
“I came over because you weren’t answering your phone,”
Tracy says slowly, like I could snap at any second. “When I got
here, Peter was getting out of his car. We talked for a few minutes.”
She hasn’t answered either of my questions. She’s also not telling me to stop being paranoid, which is what she usually says
when she thinks I’m out of control.
“What did he tell you? Or are you not supposed to say anything?” I spit out angrily.
“He said that Amanda’s dad pulled her out of school and sent
her to rehab, and told the dean that Peter needed help, too.”
I turn away and smack my computer keyboard to bring up the
screen—anything to shut her out. My email pops up and there’s a
new message from Vicky titled “Reindeers Rock!!!!” I click on it,
and there’s a picture of her with huge fuzzy antlers on. They stick
out of the mass of gigantic curls piled on top of her head at crazy
angles. Her message is just two lines long:
Tried to post on your
site. Did it crash cuz there were lotsa holiday messages for your pops?