Read Between the Lines (26 page)

“Mr. French?” I ask. “Are you OK?” He’s always so nice at school, I can’t believe he’s the same guy.

“You!” he yells again. “Little Miss Perfect.”

I don’t believe this.

“What so wrong with being perfect?” I call through my window. All this time, I thought he liked me.

Now that he’s not in front of the car, I can easily pull through the light and get away. But the light turned red again. Figures. Little Miss Perfect does not run the light.

“Think you’re better than everyone!” he slurs.

“No, I don’t,” I say.

He presses his hands against my window. One of them is bleeding.

“Are you all right?” I ask again.

“Whuddayoucare?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“So what?”

“Do you want me to call nine-one-one?”

He waves his hand at me. “Who cares? No one.”

“I care,” I say. “What happened to you?”

He puts his face up to the crack. “Everything. Everything happened to me, OK?”

The light turns green.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I have to go.”

I inch forward, hoping he’ll step away, but he runs in front of the car again.

“Please move,” I say. “Or let me call for help.”

“Just listen,” he says. “Just listen to me.”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s OK,” I tell him.

“No, it’s not. I . . . I . . . I can’t. I did something.”

“You’re hurt,” I say.

“No. I hit this deer. A long time ago. And then today I . . .”

Blue lights flash behind us. It’s a police car. Mr. French swears and runs away, into the dark. One police officer jumps out of the car and takes off after him. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, so I pull through the intersection and next to the curb. The cruiser follows me and the driver gets out. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

The cop shines a flashlight into my car as he approaches. I roll down the window.

“Sorry,” I say. “That guy kept jumping in front of the car when I tried to go through the light.”

He shines his flashlight in my face, then down my body. “Cheerleader?” he asks.

I nod. What does he think, I was at a costume party?

“I’m driving home from our game,” I say.

“You win?”

“No.”

“You know that guy?”

I’m about to say yes, but then I just . . . don’t. I know Mr. French is usually really nice. And he seemed so upset. “No,” I lie. “Just some crazy guy, I guess.”

“You shouldn’t drive alone at night.”

“I live really close.”

“That obviously doesn’t mean anything.”

“I guess.”

“Did that guy do anything to you?”

“No. Just . . . got blood on the window. I think he’s suicidal. I — I’m worried about him.”

“You sure you don’t know him?”

“Not really,” I say. “No.”

He looks at me funny. “Well, you better get home. I’ll follow to see you get there safely.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I’m going to.”

He walks back to his cruiser and says something on his radio. Slowly, I pull back onto the road and creep along all the way home, terrified to go over the speed limit. As soon as I pull into our driveway and open the garage door, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief and dread. I press the garage remote and close the door, leaving the cop to drive away.

I sit and wait for my heart to stop racing before getting out of the car and going inside. Even when I calm down, my heart still doesn’t feel right. It feels like it’s been punched around and now it is bruised and aching. And tired. Can a heart feel tired? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just worn out.

Inside, the house is quiet and warm. My parents are in the living room staring at their laptops and drinking wine. I say hi but don’t stop to chat. They don’t ask me about the game or who won. They never do.

I walk slowly down the hall and stop at Beth’s door. There’s a giant sign on it. She always makes signs for her door. Little messages or warnings for me. Passive-aggressive notes for me to digest. My parents love the cleverness of it all. My door is blank. I don’t like clutter. I don’t like posters. I don’t like messages. I don’t need them.

I stand outside the door and read Beth’s latest note for me. The paper is blue and the lettering is bright yellow. There are stars all around the message, which reads: “
STAY GOLD
.”

I don’t know what it means. But it seems like the most positive thing she’s ever left for me. Stay gold. Stay. She thinks I’m gold? What does that even mean?

I tap on her door.

“Who
is
it?” she sings, knowing full well.

“Me,” I say.

I hear her jump off her bed and bound across the room. She opens the door and beams up at me.

“Do you like my message?”

She has her hair in babyish pigtails. One is dyed blue and one red. She’s wearing too much blush. Sometimes I think she believes she’s still five and not eleven. Her tininess doesn’t help.

“I don’t know what it means,” I say. “Explain.”

“Enter.”

I follow her in and sit on the edge of her bed.

She plops down beside me, then scooches back so she can sit cross-legged. I move back and do the same so we’re facing each other.

“I can see your underwear,” she tells me.

I push my skirt down between my legs.

“You smell like a boy,” she says.

I roll my eyes.

“I hate Ben’s cologne.”

“Well, you’ll never have to smell it again. We broke up.”

Instead of clapping, she sighs thoughtfully.

“Well, it was bound to happen,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

She props her elbow on her knee and rests her chin in the cup of her hand. A classic Beth pose. She studies me.

“You really are very pretty,” she says. “Mom and Dad don’t know where the heck you came from.”

“Maybe I’m adopted.”

“No. You have Dad’s eyes and Mom’s mouth and nose. They just look better on you.”

“Thanks. And don’t say that in front of them.”

She wrinkles her own nose. “I don’t have to. They know it already.”

She squinches up the rest of her face. “I used to hate you for it.”

This surprises me. “Really?”

She half shrugs. “Who wouldn’t? Look at me.”

I look. She is not much to look at, if I’m going to be completely honest. She has my parents’ features, too, but not the right ones. My dad’s square jaw would look OK if Beth was a boy. And my mom’s small mouth would look pretty and doll-like except not so much matched with that jaw. Poor Beth.

“Are you going to explain the gold?” I ask to change the subject.

She nods. “It’s from a book I read.
The Outsiders.
”

I laugh. “That makes sense,” I say sarcastically. “I never was one to fit in.”

“No, see. There’s this part in the book about staying who you are, no matter what. That’s what Ponyboy, the main character, and his best friend Johnny tell each other. ‘Stay gold.’ It’s from a Robert Frost poem.”

“Well, aren’t you literary.”

She smiles.

“Anyway. You know who you are, Grace. You’re Grace! You don’t change for anyone. I think that’s why you’re so popular. You know who you want to be. You don’t try to be someone you’re not. You’re gold.”

“I may be the popular girl,” I say. “But I don’t think people like me very much.” Is that true? Has that been my fear all along?

Beth tilts her head and squints her eyes at me. “That’s dumb. You know they do. You’re just feeling insecure right now because of Ben.”

“What do you know?” I say. I feel like crying but not in front of her.

“Trust me. I know what it’s like when people
really
don’t like you. I’m a freak. Only Mom and Dad appreciate my finer qualities. Everyone else just thinks I’m annoying.”

“I don’t,” I say.

“Liar.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. Now that you think I’m gold.” I smile to let her know I’m mostly joking.

“We’ve never had very strong sister powers,” she says. “But I think that could change.”

“Why now?”

“Why
not
now?” She motions for me to turn around so my back is facing her.

She gently reaches for my braids and pulls the ties off them. She slowly runs her fingers through my hair to unplait it. I used to do this to her when she was little. I loved to braid her hair and practice different kinds of updos. I’d make her look like a child beauty-pageant contestant. My parents hated it, which, I admit, was my motivation to do it in the first place. I don’t know why I have to push their buttons. I guess because they’re always pushing mine.

“You have the prettiest hair,” she tells me. “If you look closely, it’s not just all blond. There are flecks of orange and red and gold. Especially gold.”

She tilts my head back and begins to brush it. I can’t remember the last time someone brushed my hair for me. My mom or dad must have when I was little, but I don’t have any memory of it. They wouldn’t have spent this much time if they did. They’d probably do just enough to get the tangles out.

“Remember when you used to dress me up?” Beth asks.

I nod.

“I miss that, I guess,” she tells me. “Even though you always tugged on my hair too hard.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s the only way to get a flawless braid.”

“Why did you care so much if there was a flaw? It was my hair, not yours.”

I smile even though she can’t see me. “I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m kind of a perfectionist.”

She yanks my hair playfully.

“I guess there’s nothing too wrong with wanting to be perfect,” she says.

“Little Miss Perfect,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say.

“When I finish, you do me, OK?”

“Sure,” I say. “And, Beth?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re pretty gold, too.”

She begins braiding my hair back into place, but I can tell by the halfhearted tugs she’s not doing a very good job. The strands will be loose and fall out. Normally, this would make me twitch. I’d pull her hands away and do it myself. But tonight her hands feel like they are doing more than braiding my hair imperfectly. Tonight they feel like she is putting me back together.

A little less perfect than I was before.

IT HAS BEEN A LONG DAY.

Ms. Lindsay undresses in her tiny apartment and slips on her extra-fluffy pink terry-cloth bathrobe. It smells like Downy fabric softener with lavender infusion. She bought it on sale at Target. She read somewhere that the scent of lavender is supposed to relieve stress. She lifts the sleeve to her nose and takes a deep breath, then waits.

Nothing happens.

She’s not surprised. It never does.

The day started like any other. After her shower, Ms. Lindsay dressed in her usual pencil-cut skirt (a gray pinstripe), a silk blouse (violet), and her new black shoes (from the clearance shelf at the Bloomingdale’s outlet store). She ate her usual breakfast of a scrambled egg, a slice of toast with apricot jam, and a cup of tea with milk. She flossed and brushed her teeth, inspecting her gums carefully for any overlooked bits. She locked the door and double-checked the handle to make sure all was secure. Then she got in her car and drove to work.