Black Mirror (9 page)

Wasn’t that what I had thought too? Until the meeting yesterday. It was what I had thought myself. I owed Daniel. I owed his memory.

“So, will you promise me to at least think about it?” Ms. Wiles said. “I’m sure, if you talked to Patrick—or I could talk to him for you—I’m sure you could still take part. You wouldn’t have to do anything you didn’t want to do. But you would still be, well, participating.”

Participating.

We wouldn’t have you even if you begged to join.

“Tell me you’ll think about it, Frances. Give it a couple of days’ thought.”

Ms. Wiles waited.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know.” I meant it. I was pretty sure I meant it. I just felt a little confused.

Looking for a boyfriend … not such a bad idea … he’s a handsome young man …

Poor freaky kid.

“That’s settled, then,” said Ms. Wiles. “We’ll talk about it again in a few days. Now: More tea?” She smiled at me.

“No, thanks. I’d better be going.”
You can get up and go. Nobody stops you.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. Thanks for the tea. And for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Frances,” she said, and escorted me to the door of her wonderful cottage. “You’re welcome anytime.”

I went out into the cold.

T
hat night I fell asleep at long last only to drop into a weird dream. From the doorway of Bubbe’s living room I was watching my father, hunched over one of his legal pads, writing. Bubbe materialized beside me and hissed in my ear:
Pretend work! Pretend work!
And then my father dropped his legal pad and curled into a ball, and suddenly he wasn’t my father at all. He was Daniel, and he was on the floor of a big empty building that I somehow knew was the old Leventhal shoe factory. He was dead, and Saskia was sitting cross-legged beside him. Then, sensing my presence, she looked up. She extended an open hand toward me. In the center of her palm sat a tiny statue of the Buddha, holding the plump bag that signified wealth. Saskia’s eyes glowed red like a demon’s, but her cheeks were wet.

I woke up, turned on the light, and checked the clock. I had slept barely twenty minutes. The night stretched ahead.

At dinner I’d spotted James across the cafeteria and felt myself blush, thinking of what Ms. Wiles had said. She was completely wrong, of course. I’d turned away, only to see Saskia and George de Witt. Saskia’s face was intense as she leaned closer to George. Rapidly and of their own accord my feet moved to a small out-of-the-way table, where I sat by myself, my back to the room, and read the same page of my history textbook over and over. Amid the din, with my face inches from the book, I pretended Daniel was still alive, sitting just across the table. If I looked up, I would see him.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t break the spell. I waited until the cafeteria had completely emptied before I went back to my room for the evening, so that I could imagine that Daniel, too, had departed with the crowd.

In my room now, I swallowed. My throat felt tight as a fist, but I’d cried enough. I watched the clock. At a few minutes before one a.m. I reached into my nightstand for Mr. Monkey, just as if I had made a decision to do so. I took off his head and pulled out the little bag of weed. I held it. I hesitated only a few seconds.

Afterward I slept as well as any corpse.

At breakfast the next morning I found myself trying to guess how much it would cost to buy a small amount of marijuana. I could scrape some money together. Maybe
James gave new-customer discounts? Then I caught myself. I’d finish up Daniel’s stash, possibly, but I wasn’t going to buy any more. Even if it had helped me to sleep.

Sipping at my second glass of water, I found myself wondering again exactly how Daniel had financed his habit. When I’d thought he only smoked a little marijuana from time to time, I’d assumed he’d scavenged it from wealthier friends. Worth Prentiss was known for his hospitality, as was Amanda Coates. But since it turned out Daniel had had a major problem, then how …

A male voice spoke. “Frances. Okay to sit here?”

James, I thought uncontrollably, even though it wasn’t his voice. I looked up, furious at myself, and then felt my eyes widen. It was George de Witt, Unity Vice President, friend of Saskia. Waiting with his tray, looking tentative.

It would have been far less surprising to find James there.

“Uh, sure,” I said.

George plunked himself down across from me.

I resisted looking around the busy cafeteria. I didn’t need to. I knew perfectly well there were half a dozen friends of George’s sitting at a table by the large picture windows.

What was George de Witt doing here? I didn’t know him very well, and before this second, I’d thought about him hardly at all. And he’d never paid any attention to me either. Though, I remembered, he had spoken up—however tentatively—against Patrick Leyden’s plan at the Unity meeting.

Meanwhile, keeping his head down, George had begun to consume a very large breakfast. Toast. A heap of eggs.
Sausages. Cereal. Two glasses of orange juice; one of milk. He didn’t talk, or so much as glance at me; he ate. The scent of the sausages drifted across to me and made me feel a little queasy.

I drank more water.

Finally, after scraping his plate very nearly clean, George looked up. “How you doing?” he said.

“Fine.”

George pushed himself up from the table. “Want anything?”

“Uh, no.”

I watched in bemusement as George loped off toward the kitchen and then returned bearing another full plate and glass of milk. Feeling my eyes, he hunched a little defensively back into his seat and said, “I’m growing, okay?”

That, at least, was incontestable. At six foot four, George was the tallest boy in the school, and though he was probably not the thinnest, his height made him look it. The weird thing was that George had been in my math class last year, and he’d been kind of tubby and short then.

Well, that was one possibility for fascinating conversation. “How much have you grown in the last year, George?” I asked.

He didn’t look up. “Ten inches.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say except “Oh,” so I said nothing.

George drained the rest of his milk. He slammed his
empty glass down on his tray. Then he looked up and across the table, straight into my eyes. He frowned.

We wouldn’t have you even if you begged to join.

Being involved with Unity, doing good things, could do you a lot of good. I can talk to some of the kids—smooth things a little for you.

I discovered that I was holding my breath. I’d seen George and Saskia in intense conversation last night. Had Ms. Wiles already spoken to them? Were they going to invite me? Did I want that?

“Frances?” George said.

“Yes?”

“You’re okay, you know? Just how you are. You don’t need to, you know, do anything. Or change. Or anything. You’re fine. Like, how you are.”

I stared at him. He was looking down now, not at me.

“Uh,” I said. “Thanks. I think. Except I’m not sure exactly what you mean—”

George interrupted me. “I just wanted to say that you don’t need to join Unity to be, you know, a good person.” He stood up, hoisted his tray a little clumsily, said “Bye,” and left, his legs covering ground even more rapidly than when he’d gone to the kitchen for seconds.

Only after an entire minute had passed was I aware that my jaw was gaping open. I closed it.

What on God’s green earth had
that
been about? First James, and now George de Witt. Was Pettengill entirely
populated by enigmatic boys? Or was this just another way of telling me I wasn’t welcome?

I had the nagging feeling that somehow I’d stepped through Alice’s looking glass. That things were happening beyond the rim of my ability to see or comprehend.

I couldn’t deal. I just couldn’t. I leaned my elbows on the table, rested my forehead on the backs of my hands, and longed passionately for … something. My mother might long for Nirvana; I’d settle for Oblivion.

Or … just someone to talk to. Somebody who made sense. Daniel, I thought automatically, and then rejected it, because I hadn’t understood him either—or he me. I needed—I needed … James. No.

I sighed. I would go talk to Ms. Wiles again. Maybe she was right.

In fact, I knew she was right. I would talk to her later today. I would tell her to do what she could. To talk to Patrick Leyden, or Saskia, or whoever. Smooth things over.

I would try joining Unity. I would participate. If Ms. Wiles was right: if they’d have me.

T
wo days later, stomach churning, I sat in my room and watched the clock as it crept toward four-thirty, when Saskia would be coming in one of the Unity Service vans to pick me up.

Things had happened fast. I could hardly believe it.

“We’ll begin by giving you a tour of the food pantry,” Saskia had said to me. From her polite face and demeanor, no one would have guessed that I’d insulted her and she’d shoved me at our last encounter. That she’d told me I wasn’t welcome. “The tour will give you an idea of the scope of Unity’s operations. I think you’ll be impressed. Everyone always is.”

“Thanks,” I’d said feebly. I’d licked my lips, wondering how to venture an apology. Wondering how she and I would survive the alone-time together if I didn’t.

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t meet my eyes. But there was nothing there when she did.

I hadn’t apologized. Not yet. Today, though, I would.

I tried to untense my shoulders. On impulse I took Mr. Monkey out of my bedside drawer and pulled off his head to check the bag. There wasn’t very much marijuana left. I felt my mouth twist as I imagined how Daniel would laugh at me if he could see this. Oh, well. He’d be entitled.

I held the bag. The question was: Did I most need to relax now, or would I need it more later on, after the tour, after I’d apologized to Saskia? The obvious answer was to wait; but I felt I needed to calm down now … and I was out of my mind! I stuffed the plastic bag back and impatiently threw Mr. Monkey into my nightstand drawer again. I’d take a book and wait for Saskia downstairs; that was the best thing to do. I picked up my coat and my uncracked copy of
Beloved
, assigned for English, and headed out.

As I watched for the van, I reflected more calmly that it was just as well there was only enough weed left for two or three small cigarettes. Even though people claimed marijuana wasn’t physically addictive, I already liked it too much and that would eventually pose a danger to me. I’d just finish up and then stop, that’s all. I wasn’t Daniel.

One thing, though. Maybe it was morbid, or perverse, or crazy, or all three. But I wished that once, just once, Daniel and I had gotten high together.

“When the weather’s nice,” Saskia said in a voice of determined chirpiness, “you can walk to the food pantry from school. It’s in the old Harriman factory. Do you know it?”

I nodded. Harriman Leather Goods wasn’t located far from Leventhal Shoes. “Don’t your folks live close to there?” I asked Saskia, even though I knew the answer. I hated her little pretense of being a rich preppie. I wanted to make her say where she came from.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then: “Yes. A block north. Behind Bettina’s Convenience.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I said, my voice rivaling hers for good cheer. “I remember now. Our school bus used to stop for you just outside the store.”

Another pause, and then, surprisingly, Saskia seemed to loosen up. She glanced directly at me. “Those were the days,” she said. “Middle-school busing. Ugh. You have to be glad
that
ended, right?”

I thought it was a rhetorical question, but when I didn’t reply, Saskia repeated: “Right?”

“Uh-huh,” I answered.

We were silent. I found myself dwelling obsessively, again, on how easily Saskia had slipped into life at Pettengill. It wasn’t just her confidence and her beauty; she had all the little things too. Like clothes. Somehow, almost from freshman year on, she’d managed to dress well. Right now, for instance, she was wearing a nice red wool coat with a black velvet collar and leather gloves, and she had her hair pulled
back off her forehead with a matching black velvet headband. And, again, the high-quality fake diamond earrings.

Daniel laughed in my head.
Besotted hankering after trinkets drags one down!

I supposed Saskia might have a summer job. Something especially lucrative, obtained through her Unity contacts. Maybe she even worked for Patrick Leyden at his company. Although, wouldn’t Daniel have said? Maybe not. Obviously, he hadn’t told me everything—or much at all.

We drove through Lattimore’s barren industrial district. I couldn’t stop myself from staring at the boarded-up windows of Leventhal Shoes as we went past.

Unexpectedly Saskia said, “I hate this part of town. It reminds me of death. Whenever I’m here, I get a massive headache.” She didn’t move her eyes from the road.

She was talking about her own home. Still, after a second I said, “I know what you mean.”

She pulled into the parking lot of the Harriman factory, then cut the van engine and faced me. Her lips were set in a hard line. “But that’s just how it is, isn’t it, Frances?” she said. “You have to deal with it. Work with it. Do what you have to do.” She unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the van. So did I, with that feeling again of not understanding something.

Saskia was walking rapidly across the parking lot toward the door. I followed her.

A small yellow sign, obviously made on a laser printer and then laminated, had been affixed beside the back door
of the building. It said
UNITY FOOD PANTRY: PRIVATE
. Apart from the sign, however, there was no clue that this was anything but an old abandoned factory. I felt the beginnings of the headache Saskia had just mentioned. I scurried up beside her and waited while she rang the bell.

Andy Jankowski answered. We blinked at each other in surprise. Then I remembered: He’d told me he worked here sometimes.
Pretend work. They have me watch the door.