Spirit Level (11 page)

I’M AT THE SALON,
sweeping up hair, when I get a text from Alex:
Have to cancel walk with Churchill. Something came up. Sorry. Talk soon
.

“Shit!”

“Language,” Verna says, even though there are no clients in the shop.

“Sorry,” I say. “Alex canceled our date.”

“Your date?”

“Yeah. Dog walking. So romantic, right?”

Verna laughs. “Could be, I guess. Depends on the dog. And the boy. But there’s no point getting upset. He probably had to work. He told me last night that his shifts are unpredictable. And he seems very responsible. Maybe he’s saving up to take you somewhere nice. Ever think of that?”

I shake my head. She may be right. Of course he can’t pass up a shift. He pays rent somewhere, buys his own
food, pays bills. I have no idea what that’s like. But why wouldn’t he just say he had to work?

I text back.
No problem. Another time.

Then I text Lucy.
Wanna hang out this afternoon?

I don’t hear back immediately—maybe she’s in a dance class—and the salon gets busy. By the time it slows down, around one, she still hasn’t responded, so I head home for lunch and an afternoon of transcribing. I have the house to myself, which I usually like, but today I can’t settle to anything. The case file I’m working on doesn’t hold my attention. Or maybe I just don’t want to think about all the unhappiness in the world. I don’t know how Mom does it. She seems to have endless compassion for the girls she interviews. Mine is starting to wear thin already. I only get halfway through an interview with Jessica, a girl from a rich family who just wants to get high and piss off her parents, both of which she does with great efficiency. Until they kick her out. Her ambition is to set herself up as a high-end call girl (she has the right wardrobe and really likes rich older men—hello, daddy issues). In the meantime, she’s crashing wherever she can find a guy to take her in. Lots of guys are happy to do so. I don’t like her. She sounds manipulative and shallow, not like the other girls in the study.

I try to read a novel Mom thought I would like—something about a woman doctor who goes to the Amazon—but I fall asleep reading it. My phone pings at about five o’clock. Lucy.

Just got your text. Went to EMP with M & A. It was amazing. Thought you had to work.

I love the Experience Music Project, even if it is kind of touristy. Mom took Byron and me there for my birthday when I turned twelve. Then we went for lunch at the Space Needle. Also super touristy, but when you’re twelve, you don’t care. You just want the Lunar Orbit sundae. Byron and I went to
EMP
a lot after that, sometimes just to mess around in the sound booths, making up dumb songs and pretending we were rock stars. I haven’t been for a while. I would have loved to go. It takes a minute for me to wake up enough to realize that someone—I can guess who—told Lucy I couldn’t go with them. And that Alex has chosen my sisters over me. It also occurs to me that there’s no point taking it out on Lucy.

I text back,
Hope the Hendrix show was still on. It’s awesome!

Before I can hit
Send
, my phone rings. I look at the screen—Alex’s number. I dismiss the call, send my message to Lucy and shut my phone off. I need to think. Mom’s motto is When in doubt, write it out
.
She believes that most problems can be solved, or at least understood, by working through them on a piece of paper. Not on a computer. You have to use lined yellow legal paper and a pen or it won’t work. It has something to do with the physical act of writing and how that affects your brain.
I have watched her do it many times. Usually wine is involved, and swearing. Maybe now is the time to try it myself. Minus the wine.

I grab some paper and a pen and sit at the kitchen table. The only thing I can think of writing is a chronology of events, followed by a list of things I know about Alex and Meredith. I leave Lucy out of the equation—I don’t have a problem with her. And I’m not really sure what my problem with Meredith and Alex is.

When Mom comes home an hour later, I’m still sitting at the table. I have about five pages of scribbled notes, which I’m reading over. I think Mom’s method may be working, because I’m beginning to put some things together.

Things I know about Alex:

• He met Meredith in Montana, when he moved there from Texas in first grade.

• He’s 18.

• He doesn’t talk about his family.

• He works at a restaurant and volunteers at an animal shelter.

• He always wears gray plaid shorts, button shirts, Vans.

• His voice is quite soft. He laughs easily.

• He likes me (or at least I thought he did).

• He does whatever Meredith wants.

Things I don’t know:

• His last name.

• Where he lives.

• Where he works.

• Why he likes Meredith so much.

Things I know about Meredith:

• Her last name is Leatherby.

• She comes from Missoula, Montana.

• She says she has danced in Denver and worked at a shelter in Boise.

• Meredith is estranged from her parents and wants to find her “ father.”

• Her clothes look like costumes.

• She is manipulative (Lucy’s hair) and super sensitive (arm grabbing).

Things I don’t know:

• Where she lives.

• Where she worked on an organic farm.

• How she can have done all the things she says she’s done.

• Why she hates me.

• Why she has such a hold on Alex.

Questions:

• Is Meredith a liar?

• What will I do if (when) I find out she is? Is it important to find out why she’s lying (if she is)?

• Should I tell Lucy what I’m doing? Should I tell Mom? Should I call Alex back?

“You okay, Harry?” Mom asks as she pours herself a glass of wine. “You were sighing.”

“I was?”

She sits at the table across from me. My notes are still in front of me. She can probably read upside down, but she doesn’t seem to be trying to. All she says is, “If you ever want to talk…”

“I know where to find you,” I say. And we both laugh. We’ve been saying that for years. She knows I’ll talk when I’m ready. This time, I’m not so sure I’ll ever be ready. I doubt whether she’d approve of my plan to spy on Meredith.

“I did some transcribing today,” I say. “Really didn’t like the girl. Jessica.”

Mom nods. “She’s a tough one, I’ll admit. Not exactly a kindred spirit. But still homeless.”

“If you count shacking up with assholes as homeless.”

“I do. You may not approve of her coping mechanisms, but she still deserves my attention. And a proper home.”

“But she’s not the same as the other girls,” I say. “Like Annabeth. She’s got real talent, and she’s so smart and optimistic, but her life is really hard. Jessica just wants to party and have someone else pay for it.”

“You’re awfully judgmental today. What’s going on? I thought you were seeing Alex.”

“He bailed.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“He and Lucy and Meredith went to
EMP
. Without me.”

“Ouch.”

“Big ouch.”

“Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head. “He called. I didn’t answer.”

“Maybe you should give him a chance to explain.” Mom takes a sip of wine and then gets to her feet. “I picked up some stuff for burgers. Could you fire up the barbecue? And organize the fixings?”

“Sure.” I take my notes to my room and turn on my phone. Alex has called three times and left one voice mail. The voice mail is in his dopey Churchill voice. “That idiot Alex canceled today, and I missed you. Can you come tomorrow? I want to lick your face. I want to hear you whistle. I want to sniff some other dogs’ butts. Can you bring treats? Alex sometimes forgets. He says he’s very sorry about today. He says wires got crossed, whatever that means. Maybe wires are like leashes. I hate leashes, especially if they get crossed. I’ll be waiting at the bus stop at two o’clock. Drooling.”

I laugh in spite of myself. Maybe Mom’s right—I should give him a chance to explain. Before I go downstairs to help with dinner, I text Alex.
Hi, Churchill. See you tomorrow. I missed you too.

After dinner, Mom and I watch a great documentary about backup singers (which makes me think about Annabeth and all the opportunities she’ll probably never have), and then I head up to my room to start my research. The Leatherbys of Missoula, Montana, are ridiculously easy to find. I am deeply grateful that Meredith’s last name isn’t Smith or Jones. In five minutes I have the address and phone number of a Barbara Leatherby, who I assume is Meredith’s mom. I could phone her right now if I felt like it, but I’m not sure what I’d say.
Hi, my name is Harriet. Could you please confirm that your daughter is a pathological liar?
I dig a little deeper. There’s a Mark Leatherby in Missoula as well. I note his address and phone number too.

I put Barbara’s address into Google Street View. Her house is a large gray-and-white rancher with a two-car garage, a big yellowing lawn and beds of what look like roses lining the walkway. There’s a beige sedan in the garage. Next door is an almost identical house, minus the roses. Ditto across the street. Bland and boring, not at all what I’d expected. For some reason, I’d pictured Meredith
living in a crappy trailer park, with a battered pickup truck out front and beer cans littering the yard. No way had I imagined Suburbia,
USA
. With roses, no less.

Mark Leatherby, whoever he is, lives in a heritage house on the other side of town. Beautiful paint job. Late-model Subaru Outback in the driveway. So far, so good.

I’m starting to feel all Harriet the Spy, except that my spying will have to be done online. I wish I could go to Missoula, but it’s an eight-hour drive and no way would Mom let me go there on my own. Especially if I told her why I was going. Before I go to bed, I make a to-do list of all the things I need to check out: Missoula newspapers, Denver dance companies, that shelter in Boise.

I’m in bed, reading an online article about dog training, when my phone pings.

I miss you. B.

Even a few weeks ago, a text like that from Byron would have destroyed me. And for sure I would have seriously considered texting him back. Right after he left, my sadness clawed at me, devouring me, day by lonely day. Since I met Lucy, I’ve only felt the occasional twinge, like when you bite the inside of your cheek. Painful for a minute but forgotten almost right away. I do miss him but not the way I did before. Mostly I wish I could talk to him about everything that’s going on. I wonder what he’d think about my new siblings, about Alex. And does it make me shallow or fickle that I look at his text and wish the
B
was an
A
? I turn my phone off, roll over and go to sleep.

The next day when I’m getting ready to meet Alex, I try not to worry too much about what I’m wearing. White shorts, a plain blue T-shirt, runners. Hair in a French braid. No makeup. Well, mascara, but that hardly counts. I always wear mascara. I want Alex to see me as I really am: no costumes, no games. Just plain old levelheaded Harry.

But when I’m on the bus to the shelter, I start to panic. My T-shirt has stains under the arms. My shorts are frayed. I’ve had these runners since ninth grade. What was I thinking? But then, there he is, a big grin on his face as I step off the bus. And suddenly I’m sure he doesn’t care what I’m wearing, any more than I care that he’s got on the same old gray shorts, wrinkled shirt and beat-up shoes. Churchill is at his side, drooling, as promised.

As soon as I’m off the bus, Churchill starts dancing around me, pulling hard on the leash and barking like crazy.

“You know I brought treats, don’t you, buddy?” I say. “You’ll have to sit.”

He continues to prance, and I say “Sit!” in a stern voice. Miraculously, he obeys, and I reward him with a biscuit from my pocket.