Burnout (6 page)

But then my thighs are starting to cramp and my fingers are starting to hurt from holding on so tightly to the sink, and so I pull myself back up and there I am again, in the mirror.

A second later I’m tearing off a sheet of paper towel, soaking it in the sink, and wiping it across my chest. The letters stay. I wipe again, harder this time, but all that happens is the skin around the letters gets red and raw.

HELP ME
, the words say. “I’m trying!” I hiss, pumping soap from the dispenser onto my hands and soaping up my chest, wiping again, groaning when I see it’s not coming off. The fact is I wrote on myself. Even if I don’t remember it, I can guess why I did it. I can guess that last night, alone for the first time in months in our empty apartment, I freaked
out and cut open the futon in my room, which Seemy and I covered in duct tape last summer. Before we covered it, we stuck a fifth of whiskey in the cushion “for emergencies.” I could say I forgot about it after the Nanapocalypse, but that’d be a lie. I knew it was there, and even if I never planned on drinking it, I liked having at least one secret from Mom left. Last night I cut the futon open, pulled out the bottle, drank myself sick, and then went out on the town. Found a costume. Some face paint. And then when I stumbled home, I bet I went into the bathroom and screamed at myself in the mirror for being so pathetically weak and then scrawled these words across my chest before drinking some more and going back out.

“Congratulations,” I say to myself in the mirror. “You’ve ruined everything.”

Dr. Friedman said sometimes when you find yourself in a mess, you have to clean up what you can and leave the rest as a lesson learned.

I pry open the paper towel dispenser so I can take out the whole roll, then climb up onto the left-hand sink, stick my feet into the sink on the right, and set my sneakers on the shelf below the mirror. I pull the yoga-pant legs as high up as they can go, and crank as much soap as I can out of the dispenser and go to work washing the filth off my legs and feet. I get the water as hot as I can stand it; block the drain with
my heel so the sink fills up. I let the water drain just before it reaches the rim, and start to scrub. The water swirls black in the sink. I scrub and scrub and scrub, scrub it all away until the skin on my feet and legs is pink and tingling.

I try to give my face the same scrubbing treatment, but it doesn’t work as well. Some of the white comes off, but it leaves a sort of glowing shadow on my skin, and the black stays stuck to my lips and eyes. There was a time I would have been flat-out thrilled to look like this, but I never had the guts to push it this far. Seemy used to roll her eyes at me, leaning in to block my view of myself in the mirror in the bathroom at Duke’s or wherever we’d gone to put my makeup on. “Just leave it,” she’d say as I wiped at my face with toilet paper, “it looks good. Fierce. You’ll ruin it!” Sometimes she’d call me a coward. She’d say, “I thought you were this badass, but you’re totally not. You’re, like, the least scary person I know.” And she’d say this to me while wearing glitter on her cheeks and a kid’s superhero cape. To her I became like an uncooperative Barbie doll.

I wish she would get out of my head.

I hold out my arm and rinse off the four cuts and flinch at the pain as the water runs over them. I can’t stop staring at the way they curve from my inner elbow to my wrist. Four rivers on a map to my memories. I pat them dry with a paper towel and put on the MTA jacket, covering them up.

T
ick and I shared the sill of one of the oversize windows in the den, watching the street below for Seemy and her parents. The windows are big enough for us to stand in, starting just a foot from the floor and ending ten feet up, almost to the ceiling. Mom hates it when we stand in them, because the windows rattle in their casements when it is windy. She worries that one day the windows will come loose and plummet to the sidewalk below while we cling to them with white knuckles, our eyes closed against the glass so we won’t see what’s coming. It was 9 p.m., past Tick’s bedtime, but Mom said he could stay up until Seemy got here.

“It’s finally getting dark,” Tick said, leaning his head against the glass and looking down at the sidewalk below. “I hate going to bed when it’s not dark.”

“Me too.”

“Is that them?” He pushed a finger against the glass, and down on the street I saw Seemy walking with two people I had to guess were her parents. They were looking at the building numbers as they walked, and I was suddenly embarrassed to be watching for them. I stepped quickly off the ledge and flopped onto the couch.

As soon as I did, the intercom let out its dying
landlord-won’t-fix-me
buzz. Tick jumped off the window ledge and ran to our front door.

“I get to open it when they come up!” he announced, already holding the doorknob. “Come on, Nan! Get the intercom!”

My mom came out of her studio, wiping her hands on the hem of her smock. “Is that them?”

“Yes,” I groaned, getting off the couch and walking over to the door. I paused with my hand on the intercom phone. “Can everyone please just relax and not embarrass me?”

My mom crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and then said, “You’re the one wearing a Halloween costume.”

I realized I was wearing the same slip dress as the day I met Seemy, and suddenly I wished I were wearing something
else. She’d seen me in this already, but there was no time to change.

I picked up the intercom phone and held it away from my ear so it could crackle and pop and snap without making me go deaf. “What’s up, Chuck?” I spoke loudly so he could hear.

“The Turbin family is here!”

“Thanks, go ahead and send them up!”

Ten minutes later we were all sitting in the den, Seemy and I sharing the oversize armchair with the seat cushion so worn it could swallow you whole. I kept sneaking glances at her, since I hadn’t seen her since the first time we met at the farmer’s market. We’d talked on the phone once, when she called to tell me she was moving down this weekend, and then here she was. In our apartment. For real. It felt like my summer and the new me were both finally starting. Our moms were sitting across from each other on couches. Seemy’s mom perched on the edge of our worn plaid couch, and my mom lounged back in the mismatched leather one. Seemy’s dad stood, and Tick was curled up under the coffee table, asleep. It had gotten dark out, and I was glad my mom insisted on turning on only two of the lamps. It made the room cozy, and it kept some of the threadbare spots on the furniture from showing.

“We so appreciate you taking Samantha in for the night,” Seemy’s mom finally said. She was fine boned, like Seemy, but taller, with long, shiny black hair, flowing clothes, and the sort of artsy jewelry they sell in the glass cases in the gift shop at the Met. “We didn’t anticipate the move taking so long today, and her bedroom isn’t set up at all.”

My mom remained reclining back, like she was the queen of Sheba. People with money always make her a bit crabby. “It’s no problem,” she answered with a slow smile, “we’re happy to have her.”

“Yeah, thanks for having me.” Seemy giggled, and then she slipped off her shoes and stuck her feet under my thighs. “I’m freezing!” She giggled again, threading her arm through mine and snuggling close to me.

Seemy’s dad was slowly studying the paintings that crowded against the brick walls around the den. “Are these all yours?” he asked, and I noticed Seemy’s upper lip wrinkle a little at his almost accusatory tone.

Mom raised her eyebrows, took a moment to turn in her seat to face him, and then answered. “Yes.”

He took another sip of lemonade and then slurped some ice. “They’re pretty good.” And he didn’t say it like he meant it. He said it like he knew something about art, like he was some sort of painting professional and was doing her
a favor by giving her a fake compliment with his mouth full of ice. For a moment we all watched my mom watch him. Her distaste was obvious.

“The Guggenheim seems to think so,” she finally answered, turning back around. And I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Mom’s work is most definitely not in the Guggenheim.

Seemy’s dad made a
huh
sound in his throat.

“We’re big supporters of the arts,” Seemy’s mom said proudly. “That’s one of the reasons we wanted to bring Samantha back to the city. Museums, art shows, all of the interesting artist people . . .”

“What, and sell the farm?” Mom asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“We kept the farm,” Seemy’s dad said, finally sitting down next to her mom, and we all watched as he ran his hand over the couch cushion and then tried to hide a smirk. “The place basically runs itself.”

“Well, with some help from the staff,” her mom chimed in.

“You should come by our apartment in the city once we have it set up. We have quite an art collection ourselves,” her father said. “Though it’s a bit pared down, since we had to get Seemy into school. You know”—he looked at my mom conspiratorially—“donations.”

“Speaking of, darling,” her mom said, “we should go and at least get our bedroom unpacked. I’m exhausted.”

“You’re welcome to stay here,” my mom said, standing up so suddenly it made everyone jump. “You’re sitting on our guest room. Pulls out into a lovely bed.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned, watching our parents study each other, trying to figure out who was winning this weird competition of who could be the biggest jerk.

“Nah, we’ve got to run. Seemy,” her dad said, “behave yourself.” Then he responded to a nudge from his wife by reaching into his pocket. I thought,
Oh God, please no, please don’t offer my mother money
. He pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off a few, and handed them to Seemy. “Take everyone out for breakfast tomorrow morning.” He smiled at my mom. “To say thanks for their . . . hospitality.”

There was a long moment in which I think we all wondered if my mom would throw Seemy’s dad out the window. But she didn’t.

Later on, when Mom had gone into her studio to work, and the Tick had gone to bed, I opened up the futon chair in my room for Seemy to sleep on.

“Sorry my parents were so weird,” Seemy said, sitting on the floor next to my bed, flipping through the small stack of records on the shelf below the nightstand. “They
get freaked out around real New Yorkers. I think they feel like frauds.”

“Why? I thought they were from here.” I stretched a sheet over the futon, tucking in the edges.

“Nah, they’re from Florida. Panhandle. Can we play this one?” She pulled out a record, tipping it so the vinyl slipped out of the sleeve. She caught it with her fingers, leaving prints on the shiny vinyl.

I hurried over, taking the record from her, holding it carefully along the rim. “Here, let me.” I felt bad for basically snatching it out of her hands. “It’s my dad’s.” I lifted the clear plastic cover of the record player with my pinky and set the record on the turntable, switched it on, and carefully placed the needle down. “So we just have to be careful.”

There was the soft, familiar, reassuring popping static sound before the music started. I picked up the record sleeve and handed it to Seemy. “It’s Odetta. I love her. I wish she hadn’t died, I really wanted to see her play.”

Seemy studied the picture on the front of the record. “It’s so cool you have records. I wish they still made them.”

I laughed. “They do still make them. Lots of punk bands still put out vinyl.”

“No way, really?”

“Sure.” I hoped she wouldn’t ask me anything else,
because aside from the fact that bands still put out vinyl, I knew nothing else about it. “Anyway. My mom’s from Maine. It’s New York, nobody’s from here. That’s the whole point.”

“Where’s your dad from?”

I went back to making the bed, spreading out a thin comforter and putting a fresh case on the pillow. A long moment passed, and I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Sorry,” Seemy said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right.” I sat down on the futon. “The deal is that I don’t know who my actual dad is. He was a sperm donor. The Tick’s dad lives in Brooklyn, in Greenpoint. He and my mom were going to get married before the Tick was born, so I started calling him Dad. They never got married, but the name stuck, I guess.”

There was a long silence, and I realized I was shaking. Telling the truth like that, just everything all at once, wasn’t something I was used to.

“Wow,” Seemy finally said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “Wow.”

Seemy climbed up on the futon next to me. “So do you still see him, Tick’s dad?”

“We go out on weekends sometimes. It’s technically just the Tick’s visit, but I go too. And Tick spends two weeks there in the summer.”

“My ex-boyfriend used to do that,” Seemy said solemnly. “Two weeks with his dad every summer, and every other weekend I wouldn’t get to see him. Sucked.”

“That does suck,” I agreed, standing up. “Do you need anything else? An extra blanket or anything? The AC only has two settings—off and frigid.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Seemy said.

The next morning I woke up to find Seemy and the Tick sitting on the futon playing go fish.

“Y
ou’re late,” snaps Sheila, the front-office administrator, standing up from behind her desk as soon as I push open the office door. “I saw you out the window, and I know you’ve been here for thirty minutes already.”

“I had to go to the bathroom,” I tell her, laying my arms on the high wooden counter that divides the office. The room swings sideways a little bit, and I feel my eyes flutter closed. I rest my forehead on my wrists until the feeling stops.

“Are you okay?” Sheila asks.

No. Definitely not.

“I’m fine. Just some lady troubles,” I explain, taking a breath and standing up straight, keeping the fingers of one hand pressed lightly against the counter, hoping it will help me keep my balance.