Five Minutes More (12 page)

He pulls one hand back through his hair. “It's not that hard.”

I shake my head at him. “No, no, no. Don't tell me
this
is something I can learn to do if I practice.”

Seth grins. “Okay, well maybe not in the first week.” He swings a leg over the piano bench so he's straddling it. I sit on the end with my back to the piano. He's wearing the same sweatshirt he had on the day I saw him out running. God, why did he want to be on the track team with those zipper-head bozos when he could play like this?”

“You're really good,” I say, leaning back against the keyboard. “So why don't you practice?”

Seth's smile fades and he looks out over the auditorium. “I've just got a lot of other stuff right now. I've been running a lot—you know, to get ready for the tryouts. They're next week.”

“Why do you want to do that when you can play like this?”

“I...uh...I like it.”

I remember the weird way his feet turned out when he ran and how his teeth had been clenched before he saw me that day on the sidewalk. I give him a sideways glance. “Really?” I say.

“Yeah. Running's good. You know, strong body, strong mind.”

“Right. We all know what geniuses the jocks are.”

“We're not supposed to even be in here,” Seth says abruptly, pulling the cover down over the piano keys. “We should go before we get busted and...” He lets the end of the sentence trail away. Silence hangs between us like a curtain, and I don't know what to say to push it back.

I stand up and wipe my hands on the sides of my jeans. “Yeah. I'll see you later.” I start across the stage without waiting for him. I don't know what I said that was wrong, but I know that something was.

“Whoa! What did he do?” Andie asks. “Run over your dog with his car? No. You don't have a dog. Boff the entire cheer-leading squad? No, they're not
that
dumb.”

“What are you talking about?” I say. Andie, Marissa and I are headed for our lockers.

“Stud Puppy.” Marissa nudges me with her elbow and inclines her head toward our lockers. “What did he do? ‘Cause whatever it was, he is in major suck-up mode.”

I stop on the stairs and people push their way around me. Brendan is leaning on my locker, holding a bouquet of red roses.

Marissa elbows me again. “So what did he do?”

“We...uh...had a fight.”

“You're getting flowers for a fight?” Andie asks.

“Hey. I've never even gotten a Hershey bar to make up for a fight,” Marissa says. She shakes her head and continues down the steps, then stops and looks back at me. “C'mon, D'Arcy. Flowers? Don't just stand there and let them wilt.”

Marissa and Andie get to Brendan before I do. The closer I get to the lockers, the slower my feet seem to go. “Nice flowers,” Marissa says. “Whose lawn did you swipe them from?”

“Bite me,” Brendan says, turning his head just long enough to give her the evil eye.

Marissa sticks out her tongue. Andie laughs. Brendan and I just stare at each other while Marissa takes out her purse and jacket. She turns and puts a hand to her forehead. “This is just”—she sniffs—”so touching.” She squeezes her eyes shut and gives a couple of phony sobs. “Excuse me, but I'm overcome with emotions.” She gives another fake sob and heads down the hall with Andie, hand on her heart.

“She's so weird,” Brendan says. He never takes his eyes off my face.

“Yeah, I know,” I say.

Brendan lets out a breath and then thrusts the flowers at me. “These are for you.”

I shift my books to one arm and take the roses. There are six of them, with some of that little white flower that looks like bits from the end of a Q-tip. Everything's wrapped in crinkly green paper. “They're...beautiful,” I say. They are, but since my dad's funeral I don't like flowers very much anymore.

Brendan takes a step toward me. “D'Arcy, I'm really sorry,” he says. “Swear to God, I trust you.” He pulls me into a hug, and I have to hold the flowers off to the side so they don't get squashed. He kisses the top of my head. “We're okay now, right?” he says against my hair. All I do is nod because I don't trust my mouth to say anything that will be even close to right.

“Claire's here.” Mom's waiting in the kitchen for me.

“What? Why didn't you tell me that she was coming?” I say as I pull off my coat. Claire is the last thing I need today.

“I didn't know. She called after you left.”

“What does she want?”

“D'Arcy! She can come here any time she wants to. She is your sister.”

“She never comes without a reason.”

Mom sighs. She rubs little circles in the middle of her forehead with two fingers. I can see the pinched lines of a headache between her eyes. “She came to get the tea set. Your father wanted her to have it.”

“Is she staying?”

“Just tonight.”

Claire's in the dining room, sitting on the floor in front of the china cabinet, a stack of tissue-like paper on her right,
a small cardboard box on her left, half filled with curlicues of paper. She's wearing khakis and a blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up.

“Hi, Claire,” I say, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi, D'Arcy.” She half turns to acknowledge me. She's packing the tea set, setting each tissue-wrapped piece in the box.

“Need any help?” I ask.

“I can manage, thanks. I'm almost finished,” she says, stuffing crumpled paper into the mouth of the teapot.

An image of my dad reading
Alice in Wonderland
comes into my mind. I'm nine, maybe ten, and he's reading the part about the Mad Hatter's tea party and doing all the voices. I feel a prickling behind my nose and eyes. I blink hard a couple of times.

“How's school?” Claire asks.

“Okay.”

“Exams go all right?”

“Uh-huh. How's work?”

“Busy.”

This is the limit of our conversations—the kind of nothing small talk you'd make with the person sitting next to you on the bus. Claire and I can't seem to connect. I stay there in the doorway, watching her, wanting, just once, to feel like family with her.

Claire gets up, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of her pants. She slips past me and, automatically, one hand pushes the hair back from my face. “I'm going to need the other box,” she says.

I turn and go up to my room.

I stay out of Claire's way as much as I can for the rest of the evening, which isn't that hard, because I think she's doing the same with me. I hear her take a shower about eleven o'clock and after that the house gets quiet. But I can't sleep. I slip downstairs thinking maybe I'll get something to eat.

There's a half-empty bottle of wine in the refrigerator.

I cut myself some cheese off a plastic-wrapped wedge and find an unopened box of sour cream–flavored crackers in the cupboard. Then I open the refrigerator again.

The cork comes out of the wine bottle with a soft pop, like pulling my finger out of my mouth. I take a drink right out of the bottle. And another. And another. And another.

The heat begins to spread out from my stomach. All of a sudden I don't care about Claire. I don't care about anything.

I'm at the table finishing breakfast when Claire comes down in the morning. She's carrying a tote bag and a caramel-colored coat over one arm. She reminds me of an actress in those old black-and-white movies they show at the Majestic.

The cartons are by the kitchen door. “I'm just going to put these in the car,” she says. She leaves her coat and bag on the chair next to me.

I nod. My mouth is full of cereal so I can't say anything, which is good, because I don't have anything to say. A hand touches my shoulder and I jump, sucking milk into the back of my nose.

“I'm sorry,” Mom says as I hack and sputter. “I didn't mean to scare you.” She pats my back between the shoulder blades as I spray drops of milk across the kitchen table and try not to choke. “Claire's not gone yet?” she asks.

“She's putting the boxes in the car,” I say when I can talk again.

Claire comes back in then. “Good morning, Leah,” she says. “I thought I should get an early start.”

“That's a good idea. But before you go, I have something for you.” Mom offers Claire a small, leather-covered box.

Claire lifts the lid and stares at what's inside for a moment. Then her eyes go to Mom's face. “It's my father's watch.”

“It was a gift from his father. I had it cleaned and adjusted. You're the oldest. I think you should have it.”

My dad's watch. He always wore it. He put it on when he got up and took it off when he got into bed. He must have been wearing it when he died. How did she get it?

I can't get my breath. I press hard against my breastbone. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Thank you,” Claire whispers. She clasps the box between her hands as though it were made of something breakable. She clears her throat. “I better get going,” she says.

Mom drops one hand on my shoulder. “Claire, there's something I want to say to you, before you go.”

She's going to tell Claire about Dad being sick.

“Leah, I really have to get on the road.”

“I know you think your father didn't have any love left for you. That he abandoned you when he married me and we had D'Arcy, but it isn't true. He loved you just as much.
He wanted all of us to be a family. He hoped...” She stops for a moment, swallows. Her fingers dig into my shoulder. “He just ran out of time on that.”

Claire shifts her weight from one foot to the other like she can't wait to get away. “Leah, I...”

I can't stop staring at the box with my dad's watch. I can feel my hands shaking in my lap. My mother continues talking as though Claire hadn't spoken. “You really hurt him. He was a good man and a good father. To both his children. He didn't deserve to be treated the way that you treated him. I hope you'll think about that. And I hope you'll remember that you still have a sister.”

The silence spreads across the room like a pool of spilled water.

“Half-sister,” I say. I'm actually surprised to hear the words come out of my mouth.

“D'Arcy,” my mother says. I hear
Stop It
in her voice but I'm not going to.

“It's true,” I say. “Claire doesn't want a real sister. Not me, anyway. She hates me.”

“I don't hate you,” Claire says, but she doesn't even look at me.

I get up and go stand in front of her. “It's okay. I don't like you either.”

“D'Arcy! That's enough,” Mom says, her voice loud and sharp.

“You don't deserve to have that.” I point at the watch. “You didn't want Dad. Why should you have his things?”

Claire sighs and tucks her perfect blond hair behind her perfect tiny ear. “You're just a spoiled baby.”

The remaining carton of china is right beside me. I bend down, flip up the flaps of the box and pull out the first tissue-covered piece my hand touches. I hold it high above my head and then smash it to the floor. I don't even know what I've broken, but I like the sound it made. “Goo-goo gah-gah,” I say to Claire.

Mom is across the room in two steps. She grabs my arms and whips me around to face her. “What the hell's wrong with you?” she says. Her fingernails are pinching my skin. “You're going to replace that.”

Claire is down on one knee, picking shards of china out of the crumpled paper. “You can't replace this. It's not something you buy at Wal-Mart.” Her face is all sharp edges and pinched-together lines.

“Apologize,” Mom orders.

I let my eyes slide off her face until I'm looking just beyond her ear. “No.”

“Apologize to your sister. This is your last chance.” She says each word precisely so I'll know she's not kidding.

“No,” I repeat. “I'm not sorry and I won't say I am. You can ground me for the rest of my life. I won't say it.”