One Lonely Degree (5 page)

D
a
D
an
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are at the Y when Gran calls on Sunday afternoon. My sixty-eight-year-old grandmother has a heart of gold. That’s what everyone says about her. She never pries into other people’s business or offers unwanted advice, and she has the even kind of voice that makes you want to trust her, especially over a long-distance line. I know because I almost confessed an awful secret to her four months ago. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest or that my lungs would collapse. I thought I was standing at a point where everything would change.

Then another phone call came through on call waiting—some woman with a heavy Italian accent wanting me to take a nutrition survey. I was halfway through the thing, in a kind of daze, when I got a call from Gran, wondering why I’d deserted her on the other line.

This is the kind of thing that happens to me a lot, even with the iron pills. But the truth is, I didn’t entirely forget about Gran
on the phone; I changed my mind and couldn’t go through with what I was about to say. Now whenever she calls, I make sure to get her talking about her friend Veronica’s Alzheimer’s or her other two grandchildren, who live lots closer to her than we do. I don’t allow for any quiet time over the phone during which I could get stupid ideas.

But Mom’s the one who answers the phone when the original Fionnuala, my grandmother, calls on Sunday. I’m sprawled out on the sofa eating a bagel iced with red pepper cream cheese, half listening to the one side of the conversation I can hear, when Mom walks out of the family room with the cordless pressed to her ear. I think I hear her voice crack in the hall.

Her throat could be dry or it could be my imagination, but I flick on the TV and hike up the volume, just in case. I watch videos for close to an hour, until I’m nearly sure it’s safe, and then I head into the kitchen to rummage around for Popsicles. It’s deranged to eat Popsicles in winter, I know, but watching Audrey yesterday must’ve put me in the mood. My head’s buried in the fridge when Mom steps into the kitchen wearing her favorite perfume, looking like an Elizabeth Arden ad come to life. I’m afraid to examine her too closely, but I skim a look over my shoulder and say, “So how’s Gran?”

“I’m sorry,” Mom says absently. “I should’ve put you on to speak to her.” Gran lives five and a half hours north of Glenashton, which means we don’t see her very often. Between Veronica, the two cousins I mentioned, plus an unmarried daughter who can barely afford them, Gran has her hands full. My grandmother doesn’t like to complain, but my dad must seem like a golden boy in comparison.

Mom swings the top cupboard open and pulls out a box of wheat crackers. “Why don’t you pig out on Oreos like a normal
person?” I ask. Her snacks are strictly crackers or yogurt. I’ve never once seen her chomp into a Krispy Kreme doughnut or a Mars bar.

“I’m not fifteen anymore,” Mom says. “They’d go straight to my hips.”

My mother has perfect hips, not too bony or too big. I think it’d take more than a couple Oreos on a Sunday afternoon to destroy that, but what do I know, I
am
fifteen and I don’t have hips like that.

Dad and Daniel burst into the house before I can contradict her. Samsam barks and follows them into the kitchen, wagging his tail like a wild thing. He’s happiest when we’re all together, and he’s so happy now that it makes me smile. It’s the happiest I’ve felt since yesterday’s natural high. Seeing Jersy out there was good too. It reminded me of the way I used to feel when Record Store Guy would sidle up to me in HMV. The hair-smelling thing was new, though, and thinking about it makes me feel good-crazy all over again. It feels so fantastic that it seems wrong to be fantasizing about in my kitchen, surrounded by my family.

“I’m gonna call Audrey,” I announce, dashing into the hall. “See how she’s feeling.”

I don’t know what I’m really going to do when I get upstairs, only that I’m burning up with Jersy thoughts. My room is cold, how I like it, and I want to savor the good feeling now that I’m alone, but it’s already changing.

Downstairs a door slams. I go over to the window and stare down at my father in his black turtleneck, gazing past our melting front yard. My mother comes out after him. She stands directly in front of him, her arms knotted against her chest. It’s like watching TV on mute, only there’s nothing to hear because no one says anything. My dad turns and goes inside, but Mom keeps staring at that empty space like something else is supposed to happen.

I’m tired of eavesdropping and spying. Whatever’s wrong between them isn’t shrinking, and I’ve already seen and heard more than I should. Couldn’t they pretend, at least while they’re around Daniel and me, that everything’s all right? It’s like they’re not even trying.

“Am I supposed to keep this all a secret?” Mom shouts from her place at the door. “Are you a robot, Alan? Do you feel anything?”

Our neighbors will talk. A familiar gush of embarrassment bobs up and down in my stomach as I stare at Mom’s blond head.

I hear the door open and watch her hesitate. Long seconds pass and then she steps inside. I tiptoe to my door and ease it open. My bedroom is closest to the front door, and I hear Dad’s voice. “You have no right to discuss any of this with my mother. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but this is between you and me.”

“What’s between you and me?” Mom asks. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“You’re pushing me away.” Dad’s voice is controlled, but I sense the anger. “Everything you do is pushing me. You’ve made it impossible, and now you’re making it unbearable.”

“You won’t even talk about it,” Mom intones. “Emotionally, you haven’t been here in months. It’s like we don’t even exist in the same space. If we didn’t have the kids around, we’d never even have a simple conversation, would we?” She lets out a sob that makes my eyes sting. I press my head against the doorjamb and wait for my father’s voice. He’ll comfort her now, won’t he? Otherwise how will this end?

But there are no more voices, just the sound of Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I shut my door so we won’t have to look each other in the face. My eyeballs feel like they’ve been sprinkled with salt,
but I don’t know whether I’m more angry or sad. How can they be so selfish? Don’t Daniel and I count for anything?

I slide Liz Phair into my stereo and play “Good Love Never Dies” as loud as my eardrums can stand, even though I know I don’t have an ounce of control over what my parents are doing to all of us. I crawl into bed and sing along in my head as my eyes fizz and my throat swells up. Today “Good Love Never Dies” is the longest song in the world.

Audrey’s better by Monday, but not altogether cured. She stands at my locker blowing her nose and explaining that she didn’t have the energy to finish her science homework over the weekend. We don’t need to discuss yesterday’s “Good Love Never Dies” episode. We’ve already been through it over IM last night, not that there was really anything new to say—except that this time my parents ate dinner in shifts.

“Mr. Savin always comes around and checks our homework,” Audrey continues, cramming her tissue into her sleeve. “He deducts two percent if you’re not done.”

“That’s nothing,” I tell her. It’s not like Audrey to worry about a measly two percent. We’re not brainiacs, after all, and your tenth-grade marks don’t count for anything.

“I know. But it’s so annoying. It’s like we’re in second grade or something.” She frowns. “What does it matter if we finish our homework every single time—so long as we know what we’re doing?”

Okay, so now I know what’s getting to her. It’s too much like something stepdad Steven, obsessed with checks and balances (and common colds and criminals), would do.

“Show him last week’s homework instead,” I suggest. “I bet he won’t know the difference.”

Audrey’s eyes light up. “You’re devious. Have you ever actually done that?”

“Once—and it worked too.”

Audrey nods like she’s impressed. “It’s worth a try.”

Of course it is. I shove
The Great Gatsby
under my arm, grab my pencil case, and slam my locker shut. When I look up, Jersy Mikulski’s standing beside me, hair falling into his eyes, yawning so wide that I could count his teeth. “Shit, I can’t keep my eyes open,” he says wearily. “Give me a nudge if I fall asleep in art today, would you? It’ll give you a reason to get close to Billy too.” His left hand brushes against my arm. “See how I’m helping you out.”

I grind my teeth, mostly because this is the kind of reaction he’s expecting, and say, “I do NOT have a thing for Billy Young.”

Audrey blinks next to me, trying to figure it all out. “She doesn’t, you know. You’re way off base.”

“Off base?” He scratches his head, messing his hair up worse than ever. “Really?” He leans against the locker next to mine and looks at her in a way that makes me jealous. It’s not even anything as specific as lust, just interest. But I don’t want Jersy to even be aware of Audrey’s existence; I want him all to myself. It’s completely moronic and I know it.

“Hey, you’re in my science class,” Audrey notes. “Did you finish the homework?”

“Mostly.” Jersy nods. “You want to borrow it?”

“That’d be great.” Audrey smiles at him as he hands it over. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Yeah?” Jersy’s eyes land back on me. “Finn says I’m psychotic.”

“Were
psychotic,” I correct.
Whatever
. I look over at Audrey, who is smiling at Jersy like her life depends on it, and suddenly feel
like a giant on stilts. I’m the kooky friend. That’s my function here and I hate it.

“This is Jersy,” I mumble in Audrey’s general direction. “In case you didn’t know.”

“Right,” he says. “And you’re Audrey?” He already knows her name. I want to climb into my locker and close the door behind me.

“Yup.” Audrey shows off her teeth: straight and white. She’s not pretty in the obvious blond-bombshell way, but what she has going for her is better. It doesn’t depend on makeup, hair dye, or lighting. She flips her dark ringlets over her shoulder as she says, “So what do you think of St. Mark’s?”

Jersy laughs. “Not much.”

I wonder if he means that like Audrey and I do or if it’s just the smart-ass thing to say, but I just bite my thumbnail and try not to stare at him too much.

Audrey gives him the benefit of the doubt. She leans against my locker, her posture his mirror image, and says, “Wait till you’re here a few months—you’ll hate it more every moment.”

Jersy nods like he knows exactly what she means. He detaches himself slowly from the locker, giving me a final glance. “Remember, I’m counting on you today,” he says. “Don’t let me nod off in art. Ferguson already has it in for me.”

“See you last period,” Audrey says.

“Later,” Jersy says, and then he’s gone.

“God.” Audrey slumps back against my locker, instantly deflating. “‘See you last period.’” She repeats it like it’s the lamest phrase in the English language, like she’s saying “I just wet my pants.” Audrey pulls her tissue out of her sleeve and swipes at her nose. “I’m such an idiot.”

“What’s wrong with ‘See you last period’?” I ask.

Audrey does drama much better than I do. She presses her
eyelids shut and whispers, “I’m sinking.” We’ve used that phrase so much in the past year (for even the most remotely embarrassing episodes) that it’s lost all significance, but in this case it genuinely seems to apply.

“It’s fine,” I assure her. “You’re being a drama queen.” I could point out that he already knew her name and that I’m so obviously just the wacky friend here that it hurts, but I’m not feeling as generous as I could be.

“It sounds like I’m counting the minutes,” Audrey explains.

I fold my arms loosely in front of me and remind myself that this is my very best friend. “So you like him?”
I’m sinking
.

“I don’t know him—he wasn’t even talking to me. I was practically invisible here beside you.” She’s completely sincere, and that makes me feel like an evil stepsister. “What was all that about Billy Young anyway? Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No idea.” I shrug. “He’s psycho, remember?” I begin to fill her in on all the stuff I remember from Jersy’s daredevil years.

“Was he that hot when he was six?” she interrupts, her face scrunching up like she’s in physical pain.
“Moron,”
she says emphatically. “Moron question.”

“He was every six-year-old’s dream.” I adjust
The Great Gatsby
under my arm and attempt a straight answer. “He was okay, I guess—I mean, he was just a kid. We went swimming and stuff.”

Audrey smoothes down her kilt and looks straight up into my eyes. “Do you like him? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to jump him in science last period, but is he available as a lust object?”

“Audrey, I don’t even know him. I’ve spoken to him maybe twice.” I make that sound more casual than I feel because I have no intention of standing in her way. The complexity of doing anything more than staring at Jersy makes me feel claustrophobic and defective.

“And you’re dedicated to Record Store Guy, right?” Audrey’s eyes dance, and I think of all the times I imagined losing my virginity to Ryan. He’s not Raine Maida but he’s definitely a Beautiful Boy. Even now my chest aches faintly while thinking about him.

“In that pathetic worshiping-him-from-afar way, yeah.” I’m only partly joking, but Audrey smiles. “It’s cool,” I tell her. “Go lust after Psycho Boy.”

“Cool.” Audrey grins with her whole face. “But if I’m gonna lust after him, he can’t be Psycho Boy, okay? It’s too weird.”

“Okay,” I tell her, and the minute I say it I know this is going to be different. Audrey could never all-out fall for someone called Psycho Boy. That’s why he has to be plain old Jersy.