The Sound of Letting Go (15 page)

I don’t come downstairs until our softly modified

doorbell rings,

announcing the arrival of Justine.

We eat sautéed shrimp over capellini pasta, on square

blue plates Mom found at an Italian import store

that almost perfectly match

the tiles in the kitchen backsplash.

Dad tops off Mom’s wine.

I watch jealously.

I am cold sober as the pebbles on the bottom of a lake,

pushed and pulled by a current,

not responsible for their direction

or if they bruise the soles of some barefoot girl

walking, jeans rolled up,

beside some boy.

Late-afternoon sun fills the room with a surreal haze.

Justine and I clink our water goblets, twist our forks

through strands of boiled semolina, tender seafood,

while Steven eats his room-temp macaroni and cheese;

and the words from our mouths are about

the gorgeous colors of the fall leaves,

the “we never make it to the lake enough in summer”

that makes me think again of Dave.

Do they not care where I was last night?

I am still waiting for an inquisition at least as intense

as when I ask to borrow twenty dollars;

some kind of admonishment, or punishment,

as if I weren’t a third adult in this house

but the actual teen that I am.

The one time that maybe they would be right

to stop me . . . they don’t.

Instead, Dad leads Steven to the family room television

while Justine and I help with the dishes.

And the only question Mom asks is,

“Do you girls want dessert?”

“Oh, that’s all right, Mrs. Meehan,” Justine says.

“Yeah,” I add hurriedly.

I don’t want Mom to thank Justine for coming over,

say she understands her nervousness.

I’m not ready for anyone to know

my parents’ new plan for Steven.

“It’s still early.

I was thinking Justine and I could go to the mall.”

“That’s a half-hour drive. Don’t you have to practice trumpet later?” Mom says.

“Suddenly, you want to involve yourself in my practice schedule? You haven’t even asked me

where I was last night!”

I throw the dish towel onto the countertop,

grab the Subaru keys from the hook by the refrigerator.

“Let’s go.”

Justine’s eyes widen, but she goes to get her coat.

I don’t turn around to check my mother’s expression,

like I didn’t turn around

after I told Dave I couldn’t go to The Movie House.

“Are we really going to the mall?” Justine asks

as I idle at the four-way stop

where Broad Street crosses Main.

“It’s probably too far.” I think guiltily of my trumpet,

despite the scene I made at home.

I drive past Bouchard’s and down the steep hill

to Jasper’s humble downtown:

a block-long strip featuring a grocery store, a gas station,

the town library,

and a surprisingly large Walgreens.

“Let’s go here.”

We pass Ashleigh Anderson and our Evergreen Wolves quarterback exiting as we enter.

As contrary as we are proud, Jasper folks enjoy a bargain

as much as they dislike a chain store.

The result: Sunday shopping at Walgreens is so common

I am surprised

not to see half of my class wandering the aisles.

“So . . . this is just a little retail therapy.”

Justine gives me one of her

if-she-wasn’t-my-best-friend-I’d-think-she-was-angry

“fess up” looks.

“It’s been a long week.” I try not to sound too dark,

too selfish. “You never finished telling me

what happened with Ned.”

Our heads bent together,

since you never know who’s in the next Walgreens aisle,

she whispers, “He said he knew the dance wasn’t until

next month, but he had such a great time at dinner

and . . . I told him yes.

Oh, and that I was glad he asked early,

so I have plenty of time to shop for a dress!”

I should be happy for her, but all I can wonder

is if Justine is settling for Judgie McJudgment,

Ernie Earnest; whether he is still the boy who laughed instead of telling me to fix my skirt,

or whether he has changed.

Maybe I’m just jealous

that everything is happening for my friend

like a charming black-and-white movie—

dinner date, then dance invitation—

instead of the thing I have with Dave:

making out without dating; beer before wine.

I smile. “A pink dress, of course.”

We have woven our way to the cosmetics section.

I inspect a burgundy eye pencil,

take a bottle of navy-blue nail polish from a shelf.

Justine takes my selections from my hands.

“Did something happen with Dave? Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. We kissed.

A lot. But it was good. I’m fine.”

“Then why the dark makeup?”

“I kind of feel like shaking things up,” I answer.

“Well, you’ll sure look more like Dave’s crowd with this.

Let’s go back to my house.

My mom hates all my candy-colored shadows.

She’ll love doing your eyes.”

I am the brag-about-her daughter who blithely acquiesces

to schedules, colors circumscribed by Mom and Dad.

Until Dave.

Until now.

If it’s ordinary they want,

then maybe I should transform

into something far less

than the outstanding musician I am,

show them that sending Steven away

will not turn our house into any kind of paradise.

I pull into Justine’s driveway.

Inside, we sit beneath a swirly chandelier,

on chic satin dressing table chairs,

elbows resting on the coral granite counter

in the giant master bathroom.

As she uncaps the eyeliner pencil I bought,

Shirley, Justine’s mother, gives me one of her
looks
,

like maybe Mom’s already told her

some of what’s going on,

or maybe it’s just that she’s known me so long,

she can read my emotions

as well as her own daughter’s.

“Look down, honey.”

She pencils black lines around my eyes,

smudging with the side of her pinkie finger;

brushes on a layer of gray eye shadow.

“Here, you can mascara your own lashes.”

“Maybe that’s a little dark for school,” Justine suggests.

“We’re not at school,” I say.

“But it’s a school night,” Shirley reminds us.

“Another half hour and you should head home.”

In the gilt-framed mirror

I see a girl who isn’t quite me—

instead, something more arresting, abstract,

like the word
sorry
,

the skull beneath the skin.

I hope this face is braver, more certain of things.

“I’m gonna try the nail polish.”

I unscrew the bottle,

wrinkle my nose at the stinging vinegar aroma,

glad Steven isn’t near to smell this offense.

The thick liquid spreads cold over my fingernails.

I paint imperfectly, tagging my fingertips,

coating my cuticles, as I darken each left-hand digit.

Switch awkwardly to paint my right hand,

which comes out even worse than the left.

“I could help,” Justine offers.

“No, I want to learn how to do this.”

My fingers twitch as I wait for the stuff to dry.

Shirley returns the makeup to the Walgreens bag,

steps back to study her makeover handiwork.

“That dark liner really pops the blue of your eyes.”

In Jasper, everybody thinks Shirley wears

too much makeup,

too little else;

that maybe the too-much of her

was what drove her husband away.

Justine pretends she doesn’t care,

shows her allegiance to her mother

with shocking high heels.

But maybe Ned is some kind of counterbalance,

buttoned-up, crisp,

town-approved,

fulfilling her secret dreams of a future

in unscandalous pastels.

It’s late when I get home,

but I go to the basement to practice anyway—

half glad, half sorry Mom and Dad aren’t awake

to see my new look.

I play the gentlest part of the Hummel concerto,

the one that calmed my brother; wonder

what the trumpet will mean, how it will live in my life,

when he is gone.