What Every Girl (except me) Knows (10 page)

“I hate wearing a tie.” My dad tugged at his shirt collar.

We were all hanging out in my dad’s bathroom. Ian was shaving (although I thought that was a waste of shaving cream and I told him so). My dad pulled off his tie and started all over again.

I had this funny thought, while we were all jammed into the bathroom. I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. I remembered when Ian and I used to take baths together, and if my dad was shaving he would put shaving cream on our faces and we would shave each other’s cheeks using a toothbrush. I so definitely remember when Ian refused to take a bath with me anymore. All of a sudden I was ashamed, and I was embarrassed for all the times I
hadn’t
been ashamed. It was a long time ago, but I could feel that feeling right then like it was just the day before. Embarrassed.

“All right, all right. I’ll go,” I said, standing up quickly.

“Good, because Cleo’s going to meet us there,” my dad said. “By the way, Cleo said she’d stop at the drugstore for you,” he added, not quite looking at me. Ian kept his concentration on his careful shaving.

Embarrassed. For all of us.

I think in the end I just didn’t want to be home alone on this most important day of my life. Maybe I’d have my first taste of wine from one of those little plastic cups, and then I’d have two important things to write about in my journal for one day.

I completely forgot that Mrs. Tyler had said she wanted to go to this opening until we got there—until we walked in and I saw her standing next to some even-taller-than-she-is man in a blue blazer.
Richard Tyler
, I thought.
Wait till I tell Taylor I saw him.

I headed in the opposite direction, away from the Tylers. I wasn’t in the mood for Mrs. Tyler. Not tonight. My dad headed right for the metal folding table and took a glass of wine from the triangle formation of mini plastic cups. I headed for an empty corner of the room. Ian sort of drifted along with me.

The room was set up with three freestanding walls on which the smaller paintings and photographs were hung—watercolor paintings, collages, black-and-white portraits. One artist displayed tiny clay boxes with sticks inside. I thought they looked like something I could have made in kindergarten.

The larger oil paintings were hung on the four permanent walls of the room. I saw my dad’s cows, clouds, and river views all around me. His paintings were among the biggest. They were, I thought, by far the best.

I recognized some of the other art professors milling around the room, also with little cups of wine in their hands. Someone always smoked cigarettes at these things even though they weren’t allowed to. I was getting a headache and a little menstrual cramp, I thought.

“How long is this going to last?” Ian said to me.

“I don’t know. But Dad isn’t going to want to stay long.” I sat down on the floor, tightly crossed my legs, and leaned my back against a beam.

“He might want to stay this time,” Ian said. “Cleo might make him.”

I didn’t want to talk about Cleo. I didn’t want to think of how stupid I must have sounded asking Cleo if I could call her Mom. The key to surviving embarrassing moments is to not think about them. Then Dad spotted us. He hurried over and stood with me and Ian in the corner by my beam.

“I hate these things,” he said. He yanked at his tie to loosen it, so now it hung cockeyed, caught on the button of his dress shirt.

“What things?” Ian asked. “Openings? Or your tie?”

“Both,” he answered with no sense of humor whatsoever. “When is Cleo going to get here? So we can leave.”

I looked over at Ian with an I-told-you-so eyebrow lift.

“Oh, there she is,” he said suddenly. Cleo had come in. She walked right by Mr. and Mrs. Tyler. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a short black dress and cowboy boots. She looked cool and elegant at the same time. I saw Mrs. Tyler pull Mr. Tyler off toward a painting on the other side of the room.

Cleo was holding something in her hands, but I couldn’t see what it was. She looked around the room, her eyes scanning. She caught sight of us. A big smile drew across her face and she headed over.

“Why are you guys all hiding here?” she said with a laugh. “Larry, go mingle. I heard people looking for you. The department head is here.”

“That’s exactly why I’m leaving in five minutes. I made my appearance. I’ll get you a drink,” my dad said. “Then we’ll go.”

He headed back to the metal folding table. Ian trailed right behind him.

“Gabby,” Cleo said right away before I could follow them. “I wanted to give you something. To commemorate this evening for you.”

She was holding out a gift, wrapped in natural paper with brown twine. I took it. I flipped it over in my hands and looked at it. It was small, hard, and square. Like a box of…sanitary pads.

“It’s not that,” she said and let go a laugh as if she read my thoughts. “I did stop at the pharmacy, but that box is in my car. This is a gift. Really. That’s why I left so quickly. I wanted to get to this special store before it closed.”

Oh.

She nodded for me to open it. Slowly I unwrapped the paper. Underneath was a blank book, like the one I used to write down my dreams and the one I compiled my list in and the one I used for a journal. Only this one was special. It had a red cover made of velvety paper with tiny, dried flowers pressed right into it. It was tied shut with a fat red ribbon. It was beautiful.

“Open it,” she urged.

I pulled open the ribbon and lifted the front cover. There was an inscription inside, written in Cleo’s swirly lettering.

For your most private thoughts, for your dreams

For your wishes, and hopes, and new beginnings on this special day

To Gabby with love,

Your Mom-to-be,

Cleo

I felt so large right then. I felt like I took up the whole room. I was too big, too old. I was almost as tall as Cleo.

I felt huge. I felt so dumb. Cleo was only eighteen years older than Ian. Only twenty-one years older than me.

Can I call you Mom?
Had I really said that? What had I been thinking?

“I didn’t really mean…,” I stammered.

“I know,” she stopped me. “I won’t…I can’t even try to guess how it feels not having a mom. I only hope I can be a part of your life, a good part, at least. It’s all new and we’re both learning.”

As large and clumsy as I felt in that room, exposed by the bright fluorescent lights and betrayed by my own changing body, I wanted what Cleo was offering. I still wanted it. I had always wanted it.

“If you don’t want to…,” I said, my voice shaking.

Cleo stopped me. “We can be for each other, Gabby, whatever we can be.”

My dad and Ian came back. My dad had all our coats draped over his arm.

“No wine, Larry?” Cleo looked at my dad. “I just got here.”

“I really hate these things,” my dad said, as if that was an explanation.

“Larry…,” Cleo began, but then she took her coat from my dad. “Oh, you artist types,” she said.

I clutched my book to my chest. Ian was wrong. Cleo wasn’t going to ruin us. Just the opposite. This was going to be better than great.

On our way out we bumped into Mrs. and Mr. Tyler.
I can do this
, I convinced myself.
I watch TV.

“Dad, this is Taylor’s mother, Mrs. Tyler,” I introduced her to my dad.

So far, so good.

They said their hellos, then Mr. Tyler stuck out his hand.

“Richard Tyler,” he said, unprompted.

My dad shook his hand, too.

“Your paintings are wonderful,” Mrs. Tyler said. “I do a little interior design. Maybe we could work together sometime.”

I cringed. Mrs. Tyler couldn’t have said a worse thing to my dad if she had tried. (Unless she was going to ask my dad if he had any paintings with maybe just a touch more mountain to pick up the brown tones in her client’s beige walls.)

“This is my brother, Ian,” I said quickly, before my dad had time to respond.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Tyler shook Ian’s hand.

“And this is Cleo Bloom,” I said. “Just Cleo. Not my mom. Just Cleo.”

Cleo took my hand behind her back and squeezed it; at the same time, she reached out with her other hand and said hello to Taylor’s mom and Richard.

“Nice to meet you,” Mrs. Tyler said. Mrs. Tyler had this confused look on her face, like “So, then, who are you?” But none of us offered any more information.

“Gabby has talked a lot about your daughter, Taylor,” Cleo said. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Tyler said. “Oh, yes. Well…of course.”

“Bye,” I said. I waved and Cleo and I walked out to the car, still side by side. My dad just wanted out of there. He and Ian led the way.

“That was Mrs. Tyler?” Ian said when we got out into the parking lot. “And your friend is Taylor? Taylor Tyler? You’re kidding, right?” Ian laughed. “That’s her name? Taylor Tyler?”

I was too content to correct him or to let him get to me this time.

It had stopped raining. By the time we got home there were at least two inches of snow on the ground.

Chapter 22

It snowed again Wednesday, and by Thanksgiving we had half a foot. The river disappeared under the never-ending whiteness. You couldn’t tell the frozen water from the frozen ground. Animal footprints led from one side of the river straight across to the other. Large, brown branches trapped and sticking out of the ice were the only hint that what lay underneath was not always solid. Everywhere was white.

“We have to leave in ten minutes,” Cleo was saying. She had been pacing around the house for the last hour. I had never seen her so nervous before. We were going to Long Island, to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. So that’s what we were doing for Thanksgiving. I’d have to tell Taylor.

“Cleo, it’s not going to take us three hours to get there,” my dad told her.

“Three hours!” I called out.

I hated sitting in the car for that long. I was in my room, fighting with a pair of tights. Then my tights were fighting my skirt. With every step I took, my skirt crawled higher up my legs and the crotch of my tights sank lower. I changed into my overalls and a T-shirt and came out into the living room.

“I thought you said it was less than two hours to Long Island,” I complained to anyone who would listen.

“You’ll live,” Ian said, looking at me. He was sitting on the couch again, playing his guitar. Ian never spoke much to me before, but with Cleo around, he spoke even less. Two or three words, tops.

Cleo was dressed up in a long skirt and big earrings. She looked me over but didn’t say anything. Ian carefully put his guitar in its case and leaned it against the wall. My dad jingled his keys. We were ready.

“How long is this drive, really?” I asked as we all walked through the studio out to the garage.

No one answered me.

I was carsick before we were out of the Wallkill Valley. I sat by the window and watched the telephone poles fly by. I felt worse. I tried looking straight out between my dad’s seat and Cleo’s. Before this new family arrangement, Ian would be in front and I could sit in the center of the back seat, looking out past the dashboard. Now I could only stare straight at the back of the front seat. I was feeling motion sick. I started singing to myself to keep my mind off my stomach.

“Dad, tell her
stop
.” Four words from Ian.

“What?” I said. “I’m not doing anything.” I kept singing softly.

“Then be quiet.” Ian didn’t bother to look at me while he complained about me.

When we were younger, if we were fighting in the car my dad would just reach his hand back like he was trying to hit us and swing around at anything. He would growl and grunt, and we’d all wind up laughing. If Ian and I got into a really bad fight he would make us stare at each other without smiling for sixty seconds. (For this purpose my dad kept a little egg timer in the glove compartment.) Ian or I or both of us would crack up before the minute was up and forget what we had been fighting about.

“Dad, make her be quiet,” Ian said. “I can’t stand listening to her.”

“Just knock it off back there,” my dad shouted without taking his eyes off the road. “There’s a lot of traffic.”

Cleo was breathing carefully in and out. “I told you we should have left more time for traffic. My father says I’m always late. It’s his big joke.”

“Cleo, we’ll be fine,” my dad said.

I started singing again.

“You sound terrible. Will you cut it out?” Still Ian didn’t look at me. He was turned to the world rushing past his window.

“You sing off-key,” Ian said to his window. He meant it for me.

“I do not,” I defended myself, as I had to, but what I was thinking was that Ian
would
know something like that. Wouldn’t he?

My dad made his loud hiss from between his teeth. That’s when you knew he was really mad. Cleo sighed. I stopped singing. Not because of Ian telling me to stop, or the hiss, or the sigh. But because Ian said I sang off-key.