The Truth About Fragile Things (8 page)

I refused to show her that her teasing words stung. “My notebook isn’t organized.”

She only laughed. “Tell them I’m your tutor,” Charlotte said. When I opened my mouth to protest she laughed again. “You are so easy. Just tell them you’re
my
tutor. Whatever.”

I didn’t answer, just nodded as I thought through her suggestion and saw no holes or complications.

“Hi, Megan.” The voice came from the steps behind me leading into the school. I turned around and saw Braden Zirman carrying a guitar case into the building. Our paths had crossed for years because he started on the sound and light crews until he got so good that Schatz made him the technical director of every production. I’d only seen him from afar until we ended up in the same drama class last year.  Why he took the class was a mystery because he always looked like performing caused him actual pain. He loved running the spotlight far more than being in it. Maybe after all that time working around actors he just wanted to see how it felt on the stage.

“Hi, Braden. I never see you anymore. Getting ready for the next play?”

“Schatz and I are sketching out sets. Should be a fun one to light.” He smiled at me and started back up the steps. “Good luck at auditions,” he added and gave Charlotte a small wave before walking away.

“Another admirer?” Charlotte squinted her eyes as she watched him disappear inside.

“I don’t have admirers. He’s our technical director, that’s all.”

“The director likes you? And you cavort with the drama teacher? No wonder you get all the big parts.”

“I do not cavort with anyone. Where did you come up with that word anyway? And Braden is only in charge of sound and lights. He doesn’t cast the shows.” I brushed the hair off my hot neck. “Surprise party, remember? Why can’t we do Dave?”

“Because we can’t,” she snapped. “Move on.”

“No.”

She gave me her trademark glare but it had lost its sting in the past few days. I didn’t move. “It’s supposed to be hard or special or different. If you don’t want to do it, maybe that means you should.”

“I knew this wouldn’t work,” Charlotte said as she gathered up her things. “I’m going home.”

“I thought I was driving you,” I protested.

“I’ll walk.”

I heaved out a sigh that came from the very pit of me. Her house was a good five miles away. “Have fun,” I told her.

“Will do.”

I watched her stomp off toward the road. I kept waiting for her to turn around and call her bluff. That’s the moment I learned Charlotte doesn’t bluff.

I picked her up fifteen minutes and almost a mile later when I finally convinced her to get in the car by pulling up next to her and creeping down the street yelling things through the passenger window.

When she finally climbed inside she crossed her arms and spat out one word.

“Fine.”

I only smiled on the inside. She fastened her seatbelt with unnecessary ferocity while I kept my eyes riveted to the road. “Should we do it at your house?”

“It’s not my house. It’s his house,” she corrected me.

I stopped at a red light and listened to the engine idle in the quiet. “Do you hate him?” I asked her. “Is he mean to you?”

She growled. And then after a long pause said, “There are no other cars. Just go.”

“I’m not running a red light.”

“It’s taking forever. There is not another car on this street.”

“I’m not running a red light.”

She kicked one foot against the floorboard. “There’s something wrong with you.”

The light flashed to green and I eased on the gas. “Do you hate him?”

She wrapped her hair around one of her hands and I envied the weight of it. “No,” she mumbled.

“You act like you hate him.”

“I hate the idea of him. He’s fine. I hate that he’s fine.” She let go of her hair as she threw her hands up and the strands dropped and scattered over her shoulders.

We drove in silence for a few blocks. I kept trying to formulate a new question, but whatever I thought to say sounded too rehearsed, too clinical, too old.

“Does he have kids?” I finally decided that question was safe.

“Yup.” She popped the word out and I realized I would always feel like she was making fun of me. Even the way she said yes had a sticky residue of sarcasm all over it. “He has a ten-year-old son. So now I have a brother. Ish.”

“Ish?”

“We don’t talk to each other or know each other, so he can’t exactly be a brother, can he? He’s annoying so he’s brother-ish.”

“Oh.” I pulled up to her house and we both stared at the pretty facade. It was large enough to be impressive, homey enough not to intimidate.

“I can’t do it, Megan. I can’t pretend I’m so happy it’s his birthday that I want to throw a party.” Her brown eyes met mine and I wondered if I would ever know how much hurt was behind them. I wondered if she would ever understand that I was in pain, too.

“Do you want to come inside?” she asked me. “My mom is still at work and Henry goes to basketball practice after school.”

“Henry is your stepbrother?”

“Ish,” she insisted. “That’s another thing. Doesn’t that tell you something about Doctor Dave that he named his kid Henry? I mean, doesn’t it?”

“I love the name Henry.”

Charlotte groaned. “That explains so much,” she grumbled. “Never mind the invite inside.”

I turned off the car and stepped outside with her. “No take-backs,” I insisted. “I’m coming in.”

“I invited you before I knew you liked the name Henry.” She stomped over to the garage and punched in the code to open the door.

“And I accepted.” My smile was more confident than I felt. I followed Charlotte with a few nervous glances, my ears strained for the sound of another person. The thought of meeting Charlotte’s mother was terrifying. It was bad enough to take away a baby’s father, but Charlotte didn’t remember Bryon. Her mother remembered everything. If there was a person on earth who should hate me, it was her.

The house smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and was decorated beautifully, cheerfully. Decidedly un-Charlotte. Maybe if there was a big throw pillow that said “screw you” I would see her personality amidst the antique books and glossy wood tables.

“Want to see the most morbid thing in the world?” Charlotte asked.

“Not really,” I whispered but followed her anyway.

“This place is like a funeral home,” Charlotte said and pushed open the French doors that led into a study. On one wall were several framed pictures. I recognized the photos of Bryon immediately. He was smiling. He was squeezing Charlotte’s mother. He was holding baby Charlotte up to his chest and looking down at her once-unsurly face. I didn’t know the other people in the other pictures. A pretty blond woman, a little boy, a family.

“That’s Jessica, Dave’s dead wife, and my dad. All of our family pictures as if we somehow belong together. He forgets we wouldn’t be a new family if they hadn’t died. We were never meant to be a
we
. It all got messed up.”

“So that’s Henry?” I asked. I pointed to a picture of a little boy with curly brown hair and wide dark eyes. He was beautiful, despite being a boy. There was something in his face that made me want to wrap my arms around him.

“Jessica died of breast cancer when he was six,” Charlotte answered. “So there they are. Whenever my mom and Dave get sick of each other they can just come in here and wish they could have their real spouses back. That is so twisted!” she half-yelled. “I hate this room more than any place on the entire, freaking planet.”

“Maybe a surprise party isn’t the easiest one,” I admitted.

“Whatever. I’m throwing it for somebody if it kills me.” The way her eyes smoked with anger and determination I wondered if it just might.

“When is Henry’s birthday?” I asked her.

“How should I know?” she snapped back.

I looked at his photo again, wishing it was his birthday next week instead. “When’s your birthday?”

“December.” She sat down in a stiff, upholstered chair, her eyes not leaving the wall of photos.

“What does Doctor Dave like?” I asked her and then wrinkled my nose. “Do you really call him that?”

“Whataya suggest?” she snarled. “Daddy Dave?”

I blew out a breath so big my cheeks puffed. “Whatever,” was my masterful reply. “What does he like?”

“He’s a cyclist. He has some carbon space metal bike that he rides with other middle-aged doctors in spandex. It’s thrilling.”

“Like bicycle, not motorcycle, right?” I asked.

“I said spandex, not leather. Thanks for the image of Doctor Dave in a bike gang. That’s great.”

I was picking up a special technique with Charlotte. Basically, I refused to listen to her. That seemed to be the only way to actually communicate.

“So, what about a family bike ride for his party? Like you guys go on a ride with him on his birthday and you bike to a park and I could have the pavilion all decorated when you pull up.”

“How does your brain work? Do you just close your eyes and see rainbows and roses?” Her voice was soft, but the way she narrowed her eyes seemed as sad as it did angry.

“We could get a cake decorated with a bicycle. It might not be that hard.”

She grunted instead of saying anything and I pulled out my notebook. “What are his favorite colors?” I asked.

“I never asked him.”

“Guess.” I pushed back.

“Black and gray.” Her eyes looked flat, challenging.

“Gross. Let’s say blue,” I said and jotted it down. “Do you think next Saturday will work? What time?”

Again, she only grumbled.

“Charlotte, I’m not doing this
for
you. I’m doing it
with
you. If you want to fulfill your dad’s list then do it. If you don’t, just say so and we quit.”

At least that’s what I said out loud. I knew I would never quit. The list was inside me and however old I got or wherever I went I would be looking for chances to make Bryon’s dreams happen, even if he never knew, even if no one ever knew it but me.

“Two o’clock,” she answered without looking at me. And then in a voice so reluctant I knew she didn’t really want to hear her own words she added, “Blue and yellow.”

“Good,” I said in a clipped, business-like tone so she didn’t have time to get embarrassed. “I’ll get decorations in blue and yellow and figure out a cake. You are in charge of the presents. Are you going to tell your mom?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Maybe I’ll surprise all of them.”

“Good,” I repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I was anxious to leave before Charlotte’s mom came home. Melissa. That’s the name on the list, written in Bryon’s own hand, wishing he could buy her diamonds. Would she be wearing the earrings her new husband gave her instead? I couldn’t resist the temptation to look at her picture on the wall, let my eyes rest to her empty earlobes.

My fault.

Next Saturday I would look Melissa in the face.

Charlotte has a bad habit of being right.

It was all twisted.

B
efore I
even got inside my house I heard Lauren’s music, so I instantly knew she was home alone. Mom hates anything that blares. I stepped into the living room, turned it down, and then found Lauren in the kitchen next to the stove, her face a mix of concern and amusement.

“Sissy!” She never would give up her baby names for me. “Is the marshmallow supposed to look like this?”

I nudged her willowy body out of the way and peered into the sauce pot.

“Don’t laugh at me!” she squealed as soon as I started. “I didn’t know when to stop cooking it.”

“As soon as it melts. When it’s stringy like this it’s dead.”

Her bottom lip pushed out and she pulled the pot off the burner. “Are you sure?” She stabbed it with the spatula as if looking for a pulse.

“I’m sure. You better just say your goodbyes.”

She looked at the empty marshmallow bag on the counter and started to moan. “We don’t have any more and I need some Rice Krispie Treats. Like
need
need.”

“Why?” I fished out one small marshmallow from the corner of the bag and offered it to her.

“Because I am a girl and my sugar needs are very specific,” she said with an irritated toss of her golden hair. “Help me.”