Keeping the Moon (20 page)

"I remember the first time I saw a lunar eclipse," he said suddenly, jerking me back to attention. "I was, like, six, and me and my brothers camped out in the backyard to stay up for it. It was the biggest deal."

"Really."

"Yeah." A breeze blew through, spinning the mobiles over my head. "They fell asleep before it even happened, just like my dad predicted, but I remember lying there in my sleeping bag, looking up as the moon just disappeared. And even though I knew what it was, and I was so excited all day waiting for it to

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happen, I got really scared. Because it doesn't just come right back, you know? There's like this long, long time when it's just
gone."

I didn't know. I'd never seen one.

"So I ran inside and up to my parents' room and woke up my dad," he went on, dipping the brush into the can of paint thinner and swishing it around. "I was freaking. Crying and everything. And my mom kept saying how she'd known I was too young to camp out and how he should have listened to her-- this was before the divorce--and my dad kept telling her to be quiet so he could hear what I was saying, because he couldn't understand me."

He stopped then, and I thought of the voice on the answering machine, clearing his throat. Waiting.

"What were you saying?" I asked him.

"I was saying," Norman said, looking outside, "that they took the moon. They were keeping the moon."

"What did your dad do?"

"He walked me back downstairs and out to the yard, and told me to stop being ridiculous and go to sleep. It wasn't really a big bonding moment." He looked back at the painting in front of him, then at me. "But I will never forget how it felt to He there and wait for it to come back. Because I wasn't really sure it would. I wanted to believe it as much as I'd always believed the moon could never go away. But I didn't."

"But it did come back," I said. "Eventually."

"It did," he agreed, nodding, looking right at me.

And I never wanted this to end, could have stayed forever in

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this tiny universe with the radio playing, Norman watching me, and the breeze just blowing through, warm and sweet.

"But it's strange," he went on, "when you've always been told something is true, like the moon
will
come back. You need proof. And while you wait, you feel the entire balance of your world just tipping. It's crazy. But when it's over, and it
does
come back, that's the best, because it's all you want, everything narrows to just
that.
It's this great rush, like for that one second everything's okay with the world again. It's amazing." He looked up at me and smiled and I thought again how I could be happy spending a lot of time, maybe even forever, earning those.

"You'll see what I mean," he said, moving behind the canvas again, out of sight. "You'll see."

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***

chapter thirteen

It was the second week of August, two days before Mira's eclipse, when Morgan came to work with a plan.

"I'm going to Durham to surprise Mark," she announced. She had her hair curled and makeup on, as well as a cute skirt and blouse I didn't recognize. "Will you work for me?"

"That's my skirt," Isabel said.

Morgan glanced down. "You never paid me back the twenty bucks I lent you to buy it. Plus, I'll take good care of it. I promise." Isabel harrumphed, grabbed a water pitcher, and went back out to her tables.

"Can you cover my shifts?" Morgan said to me hopefully. "At least tonight and the morning? I'll call if I'm going to be longer."

"Sure," I said. The only thing I had going, of course, was the portrait. "No problem."

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"I'm just so excited!" she said as Isabel put the pitcher back on the counter. "You know, the schedule is always changing and you can never tell what games are when, but I was reading the newspaper for my horoscope, and I just happened to see on the sports page that the team was in Durham tonight to play the Bulls." The words were tumbling out; I'd never seen her like this. "And ever since he came on the Fourth to see me I've been dying to surprise him back. Plus," she said, leaning closer, "I have this wild idea."

"Yeah?" I said, as Isabel stuck her head between us.

"What wild idea?" she said.

"Well," Morgan said coyly, flipping one of her curls, "I don't know if I should say...."

"You should," Isabel said, her face serious. "Tell me."

"I was just thinking," Morgan said, "that all this wedding stuff has just been so awful for me and Mark. I mean, the stress is ridiculous. I could care less about the ceremony, you know? I just want it to be
done."

"Wait a second," Isabel said in a low voice.

Morgan didn't hear her. "So I was thinking," she went on, "that if I was in Durham, and so was he, it's only, like, three hours to Dillon from there."

"Dillon?" I said.

"South Carolina," Isabel said flatly.

"They do weddings there," Morgan explained cheerfully. "We can go, do the paperwork, get married the next day and be back for this game against the Bulls."

"Really?" I said. Isabel shot me a look and I quieted down, fast.

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"I know what you're gonna say," Morgan said, holding up her hand. "And it is kind of crazy. But Mark is so spontaneous. He'll love it. And if my parents want to throw us a party, great. If not, who cares. We'll be
married."

She was beaming. But Isabel had That Look.

"Oh, come on," Morgan said, grabbing her hand. "Can't you be happy for me? Just once?"

"I just don't want to see you do something you're going to regret," Isabel said. "Morgan, think about this. Running off and getting married to this guy is--"

"It's not just a
guy,"
Morgan said with an easy laugh. "It's
Mark."

"I know." Isabel frowned. "What I'm saying is, don't go down there with huge expectations, okay? If he's not into the idea, don't freak out. It's really sudden."

"Don't be silly," Morgan said, standing up. "We've been engaged for almost six months. This is the perfect solution. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner." She picked up her purse.

"Morgan," Isabel said. "Please."

"Don't be such a worrywart." Morgan turned with a jaunty swing of her skirt. "It's all going to be fine, believe me. And the next time you see me, I'll be Mrs. Mark McCormick." She pushed open the door.

"Oh, God," Isabel said softly, and I suddenly realized she was close to tears.

"I'll call you guys!" Morgan yelled as she stepped outside and put on her sunglasses. "Wish me luck, okay?"

"Good luck," I said, and she waved, happier than I'd ever seen her. I started to say something to Isabel. But she had already

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gone outside and was smoking a cigarette, looking at the sky from under that Last Chance sign as Morgan beeped the horn and drove away.

Someone was shaking me, gently, by the arm.

"Colie."

I opened my eyes, not sure where I was. I looked down and saw the blue chair before recognizing the hand on my arm, flecked with white paint.

Of course. I was at Norman's.

"What time is it?" I said. My mouth was dry and I'd been having a dream that now seemed just out of reach.

"Ten-thirty," Norman said. He was wiping his hands on a rag. "You conked out on me."

"Sorry." I sat up, still groggy. My neck was stiff. "I'll stay awake from now on, I promise."

The phone rang--so damn loud--from behind me, making me jump. Norman stood up and started across the room, back to the easel.

Two rings.

"Norman," I said.

He ignored me, using the rag to wipe a spot on the floor.

Three. Four.

"Norman," I said. I still felt like I was half dreaming.
"Please. "

The machine picked up, the familiar recording repeating itself. "God," I groaned. "I can't
stand
this."

"You want me to answer that?" he said suddenly.

"Yes," I said, even though there was something in his tone that made me hesitate. "But--"

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"You're sure?" he asked, cutting me off.

"Norman--"

He was already across the room. His forearm was tense, his fingers white at the tips as they grasped the phone. "Hello?"

I sank down into the cushions. This wasn't my fight, either.

"Yeah. I'm here," he said, lowering his voice. "No. It's okay."

I concentrated on the protractor mobile over my head, trying not to listen. I wondered what his father was saying.

"We've been over this," Norman said in a tired voice. "Nobody is asking you to help me. I'm not expecting it. I did this myself."

I stood up, thinking I'd slip outside until he was finished. But he held up his hand, stopping me, without even turning around.

"I can't believe you," he said, and he laughed this weird, not-funny laugh. "I always thought you would just understand that it was important to me. I really did. I never expected any of this."

I could hear the voice rising on the other end, and Norman closed his eyes.

"Whatever, Dad," he said, and he turned to me. I looked at him and he looked right back, eyes steady, without a canvas or a purpose between us. "You know, you can say it doesn't matter to you all you want. But I'm not the one calling every night, Dad. That's you."

Then he stood there, listening. I couldn't hear anything. And after a minute, he hung up the phone.

"Norman," I said softly. He looked down at his arm, flaking off some paint with one finger. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't--"

"Forget it," he said, shaking his head. "It's okay."

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He walked back to the easel and stepped behind the canvas. He looked tired, and I remembered when I'd caught him dreaming. I wondered if it had been his father's face he'd seen then, too.

I sat back down, sliding on my sunglasses. Neither of us spoke.

"It's like," he said suddenly, "I'm the only one of us kids who isn't doing
exactly
what Dad planned. The whole art thing makes him nuts, always has.
His
idea of art is one of those velvet paintings of dogs playing poker."

I smiled. A breeze blew through from the open door, sending the protractors spinning. They clinked against each other and the rulers as Norman watched, just shaking his head.

"I really like this," I said quietly, pointing at the mobile.

"Yeah?" he said. "Geometry was the only subject I ever liked in school, you know, besides art. There's something so even and nice about it. All those theorems and givens. No doubts."

"I know," I said.

"I liked that you could just depend on it to be the same, forever," he said, holding the paintbrush loosely, his eyes on the mobile as it turned and turned overhead. "You could come back to it in a million years and find it just the way you left it." And he looked at me and smiled, and I felt it, all the way to my toes.

"I like that," he said.

It was quiet for a minute, with only the leaves rustling outside. I felt responsible for what had just happened; I wanted things to be even. It wasn't just smiles that you sometimes had to earn.

"Norman."

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"Yeah," he said, rubbing his hands over his eyes. It was late. But I had to do something. So I touched my lip ring with my tongue and took a deep breath.

"Remember, when we started, and you asked me if I had anything I didn't want to talk about?"

He wiped off the brush with his shirttail. "Yep."

"Well, I do." I pulled my legs up, sliding off my sunglasses. "What you've seen of me, this summer? It's not really who I am. I mean, it's not who I was."

He raised his eyebrows.

"The thing is," I went on slowly, rubbing my fingers over the worn blue of the chair, "everyone at home hates me."

I expected him to stop me, but he didn't. It was almost scarier that way. I wanted Mira to appear at my elbow, carefully guiding me away just as she had at the bazaar, saving me from whatever would tumble next from my mouth. But I was on my own.

I swallowed. "I used to be really fat," I said, "and we were always moving from place to place until we ended up in Charlotte. And there, someone started a rumor that I slept with this guy when I didn't. I didn't even
know
him. We were just talking, and--"

"Colie."

"No," I said firmly.

Outside, a breeze was blowing again: I could hear Mira's wind chimes. I had to keep going.

"Nothing even happened, but the next day they all called me names and have ever since. That's why I was so mean when you came to pick me up that first day. I wasn't used to anyone being nice to me."

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"You don't have to tell me this," he said, very quietly.

"I want to," I said, and my voice was cracking. "You're the only one I've ever wanted to tell."

I still wasn't able to look at him, even as he stepped out from behind the canvas.

"Colie."

I shook my head. "That's the real me, Norman. I mean, not that I did those things, because I didn't. But to them I was always a slut, still a slut."

I choked on this last word. It almost scratched my throat as I forced it out.

"Colie," he said softly. I could feel him watching me; he was that close.

"They didn't care about what it did to me," I said. "It almost killed me."

"But it didn't," he said, and then he reached over and lifted my chin, so I was looking at him. "You knew the truth all along, Colie. That's all that matters.
You
knew."

Now the last year was flooding my mind, all the taunts and terrible things, every ounce of me that had been taken.

Chase Mercer's face, framed in the sweeping arc of a flashlight, already pulling away from me.

Caroline Dawes huddled with her friends across a gym locker room, laughing, mouths open, as I tried to turn my back to change clothes.

The man at the tattoo place leaning in close with the needle toward my lip
--this will hurt--
as I closed my eyes.