Moonglow Page 8

  Jumping to the floor, I grabbed Jess by the arm, flung open my bedroom door, and shoved her out into the hallway. She was mumbling something about me hurting her, and I still don’t know if I really was or if she’s just so weak she gets injured if you touch her. I do know that I wanted her out of my sight, which is why I gave her a jump start and shoved her right into my father’s waiting arms.

  Thanks, Dad! Come to my friend’s rescue and leave your daughter to fend for herself. He must have heard us arguing and was on his way to break up the fight or stand there all fatherly-like and think that his presence was going to scare me into submission. Think again. The only thing he did was catch Jess before she fell over the banister and crashed onto the stairs below. If that had happened it wouldn’t have been my fault, although I’m sure everyone would have thought it was. So I shoved her? She’s the one who lost her balance and stumbled. Not that it mattered because my father saved her from toppling over to her death or from spending a lifetime cruising around town in a wheelchair, while at the same time he stared at me with fear in his eyes. But not just fear by itself, fear mixed with knowledge. Looking into his eyes was like crawling inside my father’s brain; he knows something is going on, and he’s afraid of it, more afraid than I am if that’s possible. Even if I hadn’t seen his face I would have known he was frightened, because after he drove Jess home he didn’t come back into my room to yell at me, and I was up waiting.

  I was waiting for Jess to yell at me too, but that never happened. She avoided me all morning, and during geometry her eyes were fixated on anything else but me. At Mrs. Gallagher—our new teacher who replaced old Mr. Winslow who retired last year—as if she were giving out instructions on how to survive a nuclear holocaust; at the back of Danny Klausman’s head like she was trying to count his dandruff flakes—impossible, I’ve tried; or at her test as if she understood the questions.

  I kept stealing glances and felt my stomach spin out of control again watching her pencil fly across her test, hearing the scratching sounds as she filled in the blanks with sentences, circled answers to multiple-choice questions. She didn’t look baffled at all; she looked nothing like me. I looked down at my test page, and I saw nothing that made sense. It was like staring into a mirror.

  After we handed our tests in, I heard Jess brag to Danny that she had done really well on the test because she had had a breakthrough last night. A breakthrough that she didn’t bother sharing with me. And that is why I want to break her skull into two separate pieces.

  When the bell rings signaling the end of class and the three-minute countdown to the next, I clutch the back of my own skull. My thoughts are irrational I tell myself. These images of violence that are popping up in front of my eyes with more frequency and in Blu-ray detail are not normal. I want them to stop; I need to make them stop before I start believing full-time that they are normal, but I don’t know how. How can I make something disappear that appears without warning? How can I make something stop when I don’t know how it starts?

  “Dominy, are you okay?”

  Mrs. Gallagher’s question does what I couldn’t; she makes me stop thinking.

  I look up, and I see an image of my mother looking down at me. Her beautiful features marred by worry and concern. I’m about to say, “No, Mom, I’m not okay,” when Mrs. Gallagher’s face comes back into focus. The only thing they have in common is their hair color, and that’s not enough to get me to tell the truth.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  When I’m asked the same question a few more times by my friends and some other teachers, I repeat the lie, and by lunchtime I almost believe it. Of all days, Archie has to skip lunch to attend an impromptu football playbook meeting, which means Jess and I are left without an intermediary. She’s already seated and eating, so I tentatively place my tray on the table and sit across from her. I don’t apologize—I can’t find words that would be suitable or adequate—but Jess doesn’t break the silence by leaving to sit elsewhere, so I take that as a positive sign. Unfortunately, her good nature alone won’t bail me out this time, and I’m definitely going to have to make amends if I want to salvage our friendship. Which I absolutely want to do. Just not right now. Now I want to eat my spaghetti and meatballs, even though it tastes about as Italian as my last name sounds. So I do, and so does Jess. While we eat we both know that if we’re ever going to speak to each other again, I’m going to have to be the first one to talk.

  After school I have the urge to catch the early bus home, but I resist and slip into the crowd heading over to the football field for the first home track meet of the season. There’s no way that I can ignore Jess, because she’s sitting next to Archie and his white hair is like an oasis; no matter where your eyes look, they get drawn back to the patch of pure white in a sea of color. I’ve been repeating to myself what I want to say to Jess for the past few hours, but when Archie moves over so I can sit between the two of them, I feel like somebody shoved sandpaper down my throat, and I can hardly breathe let alone talk.

  Buying time, I fake-cough, preoccupy myself with adjusting my backpack under the metal stadium bench, and finally mutter something that resembles a greeting. By the way Archie launches into a tirade about how Coach Emerson ignored his suggestions for a new game-play strategy, it’s clear to me that for once Jess hasn’t filled him in on our fight. Not a good sign because that means she doesn’t need any support to be mad at me. I’m the one who needs support, and once again it comes from an unlikely source.

  Bounding up the bleachers to our row, Nadine sits in between me and Jess without asking either of us to make room. She’s wearing the same white sneakers she wears while volunteering at The Retreat, and when she shifts her weight to adjust her position, I notice that they squeak when she moves. I find it odd that the sound isn’t specific to The Hallway to Nowhere and odder still that my mind is filling up with such nonsense when I should be forming an opening statement to beg Jess’s forgiveness. Luckily, Nadine does it for me.

  “What’s going on with you two?” she asks.

  Okay, maybe I’ve misjudged this one; she might be super insightful. If Jess didn’t fill Archie in on what happened last night, there’s no way that she told Nadine. They’re friendly, but after me, Archie is Jess’s closest friend.

  “If I had a Ginsu, I could cut the tension up into two easy-to-serve slices,” she says.

  When the three of us—me, Jess, and Archie—look at her in silence, the tips of her ears start to get red, a shade or two brighter than my hair, and she tugs at her shirt. I assume it’s another nervous tic like the pen clicking, and I figure it’s time to find my voice, if for no other reason than to help Nadine relax. After all, she isn’t the one who did anything wrong. I am.

  “It’s my fault,” I start. Jess doesn’t add anything to my confession, so I know she agrees with me. “I flipped out on Jess the other night because . . .” Because why? That’s what I don’t understand. Since I don’t have a real answer, I say something that sounds logical. “I was frustrated that I couldn’t figure out the geometry.”

  Then I decide that if I’m going to apologize I should do it right and stop talking to the bleachers under my feet and look Jess in the eye. “I’m sorry.” Jess doesn’t look away. “I was a complete, total, and undeniable jerk.”

  Jess purses her lips as if to tell me that my description falls a little short.

  “Okay, I was a stark-raving bitch,” I amend, and then I get a little lost. “I . . . I really don’t know what came over me, Jess. I just got so . . . angry, really, really angry at not being able to comprehend what I was reading, angry at . . . just everything, and I needed to take it out on someone, and you were right there.”

  Jess hasn’t stopped looking at me, and I can tell that she’s been listening to every word I’ve said. She doesn’t understand it any more than I do, but she wants to. That helps me reach across Nadine’s lap to grab her hand. “I’m sorry, Jess; I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never do that.”r />
  My vision is blurry from the tears stinging my eyes, so I only feel Jess’s arms embrace me. It’s enough for me to know that she believes me, but it feels even better to hear her say it.

  “I know you wouldn’t,” she says, her voice muffled because she’s crying—even harder than me naturally—and her mouth is buried in my hair. “I know you didn’t mean it. You’re my simai!”

  “You’re my sister too!” I cry.

  “Ladies!” Archie shouts. “I feel like I came in at the tail end of the movie. What’ve I missed?”

  We’re both crying like fools, so Nadine speaks for us. “I think they had a spat.”

  Shaking my head, I disagree. “It was a more than that. I pushed her, Archie, for no reason. I threw her right out of my bedroom because I’m an idiot when it comes to math.”

  Archie makes a joke, but he isn’t smiling. “Dudette, mathematically challenged doesn’t equal spontaneously violent.”

  Despite his comment, Archie doesn’t appear to be as surprised as I think he should be. But I guess I’ve given him reason to expect this of me.

  “Seriously, you really need to fine-tune your Roller Derby skills,” he jokes. “You can hip check your aggressions out on total strangers and wear cool, retro mini-shorts. We’ll film it, and you’ll be an online sensation.”

  We’re all laughing so hard that we don’t notice Nadine hasn’t joined in until she speaks. “I know exactly how you feel,” she says, staring down at her feet, at the very spot I was fixated on a few moments ago.

  “You have a video that went viral too?” Archie asks in a totally serious voice.

  Just as serious as Nadine’s. “I lost a parent too.”

  Yup, she could teach Gut Instinct: 101. She’s comparing her father’s dying with my mother’s being in a coma because she knows exactly how I feel.

  “I know how hard it can be,” she tells us. “The day starts off and you’re fine, endorphins are flowing and you’re perfectly happy, but before you know it you’re angry, filled with rage that you can’t control or deny, and you don’t feel better until you hurt someone in order to bring them down to your level.”

  It’s like she’s reading my mind.

  “It doesn’t matter if you hurt them with your fists or your words, as long as you make them feel some of your pain,” she continues. “Even if that person is your best friend.”

  At that very moment Nadine Jaffe, basically a stranger to me, knows me better than anyone on the planet. She has one more thing to add. “Truce?”

  Jess and I reply as one, “Truce.”

  Our hug is interrupted by Caleb’s arrival. I don’t want him to sever our physical connection, so I hit Archie’s knee with mine and he moves over to let Caleb in.

  “What’s up, Winter?” Caleb asks Archie, holding out his fist.

  “Not much, Bells,” Archie replies, bumping his fist into Caleb’s.

  By the time the first race begins the air surrounding us is tension-free and filled with chatter and laughing. Jess is back to her old self, talking quickly in both English and Japanese and jumping randomly from thought to thought.

  “Archie, you reminded me that we have got to go online later,” she says.

  “Why?” we all ask.

  “MAC uploaded another one of their makeup tutorials!” she sings rather than states.

  “With our favorite Brit diva?” Archie asks excitedly. Gotta love Archie. He’s so comfortable with himself that he can go from fist-bumping with Caleb to cosmetic-chatting with Jess.

  “None other than Saoirse!” Jess squeals. “And her gaysian sidekick of course.”

  Saoirse Glynn-Rowley is this really funny girl from England who does these videos online showing people how to properly use MAC cosmetics. She pronounces her name Seer-sha, but spells it with so many vowels I have no idea how the two are connected. But I looked it up, and it’s an old Irish name, so it’s legit. Anyway, she’s always joined by her friend Nakano Kai, who’s Japanese, gay, and her demo model. We laugh; we cry; we get great makeup tips.

  “Is this a follow-up to funktastic Asian eye-shadow tricks?” I ask.

  “No,” Jess replies. “This one is all about the squoval.”

  “The what?” Caleb asks.

  “Caleb Bettany, you are way too heterosexual!” Jess chastises.

  “No, he isn’t,” Archie teases.

  “It’s a new fingernail technique,” Jess goes on to explain. “Not quite a square, not quite an oval, therefore it’s called a squoval.”

  “Ah, now I get it!” Caleb says. “That’s why you had a breakthrough in geometry.”

  For a second a hush falls over our little group; no one’s quite sure how Jess and I are going to react to Caleb’s unwittingly tactless comment. We react exactly the way two best friends who had a huge fight and recently made up would react. We start to cry all over again.

  “Oh, Jess, I’m sorry!”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Jess replies. “I’ll study with you all weekend so you can experience the same breakthrough I did. It’ll change your life. At least geometrically speaking.”

  “Subarashi!” I cry, using the Japanese word for awesome that Jess taught me.

  “Shin yu eien ni?” she cries back.

  “Absolutely!” I reply. “Best friends forever!”

  Caleb’s shaking his head, and I see him throw his hands up in mock desperation; he doesn’t get what’s going on, and as the boyfriend he’s not supposed to. But as my former math tutor he feels like he’s let me down.

  “Domgirl, why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble in geometry?” he asks. “Bronze medalist here.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” I say. “And I really thought I could master this one on my own.”

  He smiles, and the sun catches his brown eyes, lightening them so they look like two circles of gold. “When are you going to figure out that you can’t live without me?”

  The entire group except for Caleb lets out a huge moan, but not in response to Caleb’s mushy remark, in reaction to the end of the latest race.

  “Dammit! Nap is going to be more like his namesake than ever!” Nadine yells. “He’ll be pure misery to live with.”

  “Want to switch places?” I ask. “I’ll take Napoleon over the obnoxious midget.”

  We’re moaning because my little scrawnfest of a brother, Barnaby, beat Napoleon in the hundred-yard dash. Correction, he beat everyone. He’s not even supposed to be a freshman; he doesn’t turn fifteen until January, but my father pulled some strings years ago when he was just starting out on the police force and got Barnaby to start kindergarten a year early because even as a toddler he was the smart one in the family. Now he’s also going to be the athletic one.

  The surprises continue up until the very last race of the meet. In an attempt to bridge the gender gap and eliminate any sort of battle of the sexes, the Weeping Water Athletic Board has initiated coed relay teams this year. Barnaby is the lead man, and, watching him crouch down in his starting position, skinny right leg bent, skinnier left leg extended behind, both feet pressing into the starting blocks, I have to say I feel a surge of pride. I know he’ll do something tonight to tick me off, but right now I’m blown away by his talent.

  On the other side of the track in the final position for the team, Arla Bergeron is pacing, shaking her wrists and legs, keeping her body warm, waiting until it’s her turn to run. Her close-cropped Afro is dyed a chestnut brown, and she is glistening in the sunlight. In between Barnaby and Arla are another girl and guy in second and third positions around the track, looking as anxious as Arla for the race to begin. Barnaby is the only member of the team who looks calm and eager to attack.

  The starting pistol is fired and immediately my brother takes the lead. We jump to our feet as one collective cheering squad and don’t stop cheering until Arla crosses the finish line several strides in front of her closest competitor.

  Later that night in Arla’s living room, the
excitement still lingers. I felt a little awkward going over to her place, because I hadn’t seen her father since I barged into the police station, but his macaroni and cheese is the stuff of legend, so my hungry stomach trumps my reluctant mind. When he says hello to me, he’s uncharacteristically discreet, avoiding any mention of my outburst. My father chose him as a best friend for a reason; he comes through when you need him to. While we gorge ourselves on the mac ’n’ cheese and some pigs in a blanket—a true meal of champions—the chef retreats to his bedroom to watch some grisly crime show about a real Los Angeles police squad.

  “It makes him feel like a real cop,” Arla explains.

  Why I have a hot boyfriend and Arla doesn’t is a mystery to me. Caleb thinks the reason she’s unattached is because she might take after her mother. I told him lesbianism isn’t hereditary.

  Truth is she could have any guy she wants. She’s pageant pretty with a knockout body thanks to years spent running track and swimming, and she’s got a better personality than I do. I’ve got a tendency to go emotionally goth while Arla is pink and bubbly 24/7. Plus she’s got mix ’n’ match hair. As an athlete she likes to keep her hair really short, but she’s also a girlie girl like me and Jess, so she sports wigs for fashionable versatility and so she doesn’t miss out on indulging in the latest hair trends. Today’s offering is a pixie cut in a range of colors that looks like someone put a s’more in a blender. I think Arla’s single because she’s amazingly secure and doesn’t need a guy to make her feel complete.

  Looking at Caleb I wonder if that’s what I’m doing, if I’m dating him to make myself feel whole. But then he smiles at me, and all my doubts leave me. I like him; it’s that simple. What’s not so simple is why Napoleon is ignoring Jess and won’t leave me alone.