Heaven Is Paved with Oreos (13 page)

I can't write any more—I have too much furiousness inside me.

 

 

Paul is such a wuss! He knows I am 100% exhausted from the trip and not in a good mood and definitely not interested in going anywhere, including Prophetstown. Especially Prophetstown. I told him I needed some time to myself for a while. Those were my precise words: “I need some time to myself for a while.” I even told Z when we dropped her off Wednesday night that I wouldn't be able to dog walk today. Jack Russell George can survive on his own—he has a tennis ball.

But Paul just kept begging me to come: “It was so hard riding with D.J. while you were gone! I had to talk to her! Please, Sarah? Please. Pleeeeeease.”

So I had to go. I didn't want to, but I had to. Besides, I like riding with D.J. D.J. Schwenk is the opposite of Z. She would never trick someone into going somewhere for a secret reason, or lie to them, or keep secrets for forty-six years. D.J. is a true and honest soul.

I also—if I am going to be a true and honest soul myself—have to admit that I, just a little bit, wanted to find out what was up with Curtis. When I think about Curtis, I feel so sad that we broke up (or “broke up,” although right now it doesn't feel like quotation marks; it feels like we actually did it). I miss him. He was my best friend. I wish I could tell him about the skulls and the catacombs and the heads in jars. I would show him the postcards I pretend-wrote him. Also I am worried about Boris and how we will manage that. We still have to work on Boris—it is like a divorced couple with their children. We need to be professional for the science fair. Right?

These are exceedingly confusing feelings, particularly on top of all my other confusing feelings, so I was glad to get a chance to talk to D.J.—at least I could ask if Boris is still there. I know D.J. said not to talk about the calf, but I figured just once we could make an exception, if I could figure out how to weave it into the conversation.

There was a problem, though—a problem I had not anticipated. D.J. was not talking. We sat in almost complete silence for the entire ride—silent except for little slivers of noise from Paul's headphones. I don't think Paul even noticed that we weren't talking. D.J. just stared out the windshield. She didn't even mention the postcard I sent her from St. Peter's roof.

I am pretty certain she is mad at me. She has every right to be, given that her brother and I (“)broke up(”). Or maybe she's mad that I didn't send her any more postcards of my favorite places in Rome. Or that I only sent a postcard to her and not to Curtis. Part of me wishes I could explain about the Brilliant Outflanking Strategy and how Curtis and I weren't really going out . . . But broken is broken, no matter what shapes the pieces were to begin with.

“How was Rome?” she asked once.

“Okay. Hot.”

“Did you learn a lot?”

I couldn't help sighing. “Not what I thought I'd learn.”

“Ain't that the truth.”

We didn't say anything else.

Now I'm at Z's place, but Z is not here, THANK GOODNESS. Her apartment is a total mess. I don't think she's done anything since she came back. I took Jack Russell George for a long walk—a Rome-length walk, although now I appreciate walking in Wisconsin because it is not as hot!—and he is sound asleep. I even washed some of Z's dishes because they were spilling out of her sink. She clearly has an enormous amount on her mind. But so do I.

I wish there was another way for me to get home. I don't want to ride with D.J.—not when she is so mad at me! Stupid Paul—this is all his fault. I wish I'd never come. I wish I'd never done anything.

 

 

Guess what: I feel worse! I feel the worst that anyone has ever felt. I HATE MY LIFE.

I am home and in my bedroom. I never want to leave again.

D.J. and Paul and I drove back from Prophetstown. The silence was thick like soup. Thick like poison gas.

D.J. did say one thing as she was pulling onto our street: “I'm sorry I've been such a jerk today.” She swallowed. “It's just that my boyfriend and I just broke up.”

“Oh. Brian?” I didn't know what to say. “I'm sorry . . .”

“Yeah. Me too. But I've got this tournament, he's going to college . . . It wasn't in the cards, you know?”

“I'm sorry. It must be really sad.”

“It is.” She parked in front of our house and looked at me. “And I'm sorry about Curtis. You two really liked each other.”

That is 100% exactly how she said it:
You two really liked each other.
Not
Curtis really liked you.
She said it as if she assumed she knew my feelings too, not just her brother's. Even though I have never once talked to her about what my feelings were.

I did not say anything, but inside I felt exceedingly angry that yet another person was making guesses about Sarah Zorn without talking to me first. D.J. had no right to talk about how I felt! Maybe Curtis
liked
me but I didn't
like
him—not in the way that she meant “liked.” I haven't boy-liked him. I've only liked him as a friend.

OMG.

OMG.

I have just been hit by an honesty bomb. A bomb as strong as the one that destroyed that church in Rome. This is what the bomb is:

 

Sarah, don't you get it? You boy-like Curtis.

 

You, Sarah Zorn, are a liar. All this time you have been lying to yourself. You have been lying to him. You have been lying about not being a boy-liker.

 

I think that in a way I've lied to Curtis as much as Z lied to Paolo. Yes, she was pregnant, which I am not, thank you, but she was a liar about her feelings and her truth in the same way that I am a liar about mine. I have been lying to the boy I boy-like by not telling him what was really going on inside me.

Here I am so angry at Z when really I'm as bad as her. Maybe that's why I'm angry: because deep inside I know I mistreated a guy just as much as she did.

But I shouldn't be surprised. I am her granddaughter. I had to inherit something.

 

 

At least now I know D.J. isn't mad at me. That is one good thing. One of the extremely, extremely few good things.

I had to go to Prophetstown again today. I tried so hard to get out of it—I said I was sick, which was not a lie because I am sick inside. But Mom said if that was the case, then I needed to tell my symptoms to Jack Russell George and he would understand.

Which he would not.
The only language he understands is Tennis Ball.

D.J. and Curtis are both away at tournaments all week. Why can't I be good at sports instead of being good at math and chess and driving people crazy? (Driving people crazy is what Mom says I'm good at.) This meant Mom had to drive us to Prophetstown, which I can assure you did not fill her day with sunshine. I made Paul sit next to her. I sat in the back on Planet Sarah.

Z's apartment was still a mess. I walked Jack Russell George. When we got back to Z's, there was a recycling bucket full of wine bottles by the door. I guess Mom had noticed the mess too.

I feel 24/7 horrible.

Now that the honesty bomb has dropped on me, I can see that I boy-like Curtis so much! But why would he girl-like me back? Who would girl-like a liar?

When Curtis and I broke up, he said that he wanted a real girlfriend. He said Emily doesn't lie to people. So he should have Emily. He deserves to have a girlfriend who does not lie—not the way that I have been lying to me. I am not so sure that Emily doesn't lie sometimes, but I am tremendously sure that she does not lie to Emily. I just hope she doesn't lie to Curtis.

I am having a myocardial infarction of boy-liking.
Myocardial infarction
is the word for heart attack. That is how it feels, anyhow. The pain will be in my chest forever.

 

 

D.J. and Curtis are still gone. Not that Curtis's life is any business of mine, but I am writing it down for the purposes of thoroughness. He will come back and be with Emily, and I will have to go through high school all by myself, and I will have no one to talk to, and I will be so lonely that I will die like a houseplant that doesn't get water. I will wilt away to nothing.

Mom is irked by my bad mood. She does not hesitate to say this out loud. Dad would be irked, but he doesn't have time to notice anything but ball bearings and corn. I am glad that he is working so much, because:

1. I don't have to listen to him also tell me that I am in a bad mood.
   
2. I don't have to be mad at him for never telling me about Paolo.
   
3. I don't have to feel guilty and confused about whether I should tell him about the Spanish Steps and Z trying to re-meet his father. Z is obviously not interested in telling Dad, but is that right? Does that mean I shouldn't even if I sometimes want to?
   
4. What if I tell Dad and it is traumatizing to him?
   
5. What if I tell Dad and he says,
   Big whoop?
   He's already said he doesn't think about his father. What if I am making molehills into mountains?
   

I cry in bewilderment if nothing else.

Mom drove us to Prophetstown again. We didn't say much. Anything. She sat at Harmony Coffee doing paperwork while I walked Jack Russell George. I could see her at one of Harmony Coffee's little tables when I walked past. Z was behind the counter talking to a guy who had so many tattoos that his arms looked gray.

If Z tells Mom what happened in Rome and it turns out that I was keeping secrets—which is how Mom would describe it—then I am in big trouble.

But I don't think Z did, because on the way home Mom only said that Z was stupendously complimentary of my behavior on the trip. Mom said that Z told her I was perfect in every way. Mom said, “I wouldn't mind seeing some of that back here in Red Bend.”

I ignored her.

I have a blank
giornale
from Rome that I want to give to Curtis. Is it appropriate to give a gift to someone you are no longer fake-going-out-with who is probably going to be going out with your boy-liking enemy? I would say
Let's still be friends
to Curtis, but I do not think that will happen. It would hurt too much for me. I am sorry we are never going to finish “Skeletal Taxidermy and Bovine Osteology: The Process of Discovery,” but finishing Boris would involve talking to Curtis, and that would hurt too much too. Plus he will be too busy with Emily.

The
giornale
has a picture on the cover of one of those Roman-church skull-and-wings carvings. I don't want to keep the
giornale
for myself, because it reminds me too much of Curtis. I don't know who else to give it to, and it hurts too much to throw it away.

 

 

D.J. is back. Curtis is not. Just noting.

I am extremely relieved that D.J. is driving us again. I have needed someone to talk to, and she can sometimes be a good person to do that with. Not always but sometimes.

I did not want to ask about Brian and their breaking up because that would cause her too much pain. She seemed to be in a pretty good mood, and I did not want to ruin that. So instead I asked how her tournament was.

“Okay. I made a basket.” She grinned. “That's a joke.”

“Oh . . . I've never made a basket.” I did not want to talk about basketball, however; I had only been making conversation. I took a deep, deep breath. “D.J.? I have a problem.”

D.J. drummed the steering wheel. “You mean Curtis?”

“No!” Automatically I looked back at Paul, but he wasn't listening. Planet Paul had swallowed him up. “This is a different problem. This is about my family.”

And then I told her. I told her about Z growing up in Two Geese (“I hate Two Geese,” D.J. said under her breath, not interrupting me) and how Z got into college and went to Rome and visited six of the seven pilgrimage churches and met an Italian man. How they sang Beatles songs and promised to meet again when Z was sixty-four. How Z didn't tell Paolo she was pregnant, and she didn't tell her parents or her friends or even the state of Wisconsin about Paolo, because Dad's birth certificate is still blank where the father's name should be, and how she and I sat on the Spanish Steps for hours but Paolo didn't come and Z cried and told me all about him. How hard the next few days were, and how she was too upset to go to the seventh church and how she wrote it all down for her two grandchildren (= Paul and me) to have a record of forever. How confused I am now.

D.J. whistled. “That is one heck of a story.”

“I know. I think I would enjoy it more if it was not happening to me.”

“Yeah . . .” She looked acutely sympathetic, which I appreciated. “What's your dad have to say?”

“That's the problem—I don't know! Obviously he knows about Paolo, because of Paul's name, but . . .” I stopped talking before I got to the words
Why did he let me go to Rome? Why didn't he warn me?
I thought these words, however.

“Wow,” D.J. said. By this time we were in Prophetstown. “This is really heavy. I need to think about this. Wow.” She let me out at Z's house. “Wow.”

Now I have walked Jack Russell George and I am waiting for D.J. to pick me up. Z has left me a giant stack of Dog Days of Prophetstown posters. She wrote me a note too, asking me to put them up in Red Bend. The note is nice, but it doesn't say anything even remotely important.

 

 

I am sitting in my bedroom staring at the wall. My head feels like it's full of ten thousand fireflies all blinking at once.

D.J. and I talked the whole way home while Paul sat on Planet Paul. Sometimes I wonder if he's secretly eavesdropping . . . but I don't think so. Besides, his brain is so filled with music that I don't think our words would even register. We'd have to make them into song lyrics for him to understand. Extremely sad song lyrics. I don't think I'm up for that.