The Beautiful Between (7 page)

9

In the morning, every decision seems fraught. Cereal for breakfast? Moisturizing shampoo or deep-cleansing? Should I put on makeup? What should I wear? Because whatever else I do, I must wear the right thing today. I’m convinced that the right outfit will show Jeremy I’m sympathetic, but the wrong one will somehow have the power to tell the entire student body that something is wrong with Kate.

Because I’m fairly convinced that this is something of a secret. Maybe the family is trying to keep it secret; maybe he hasn’t told anyone, and maybe he’s trusting me. Maybe whatever Kate has is whatever my father had, and maybe her family is just as ashamed as mine.

I try to think of illnesses that people associate with shame. All that occurs to me is AIDS, and that was only in the 1980s, before people knew what they know now. I mean, sure there are people who would still think it’s shameful, but not the Coles. They’re a liberal New York family. They hold fund-raisers for Democratic candidates in their apartment. I remember that in one of my favorite childhood books, there was a girl with diabetes and she kept it secret because she was scared of what her friends would think. But of course, the lesson was always that no one would care; they loved her anyway. And everyone would rally around Kate. She’s every bit as beloved a princess as Jeremy is a prince.

I ransack my closet and I wonder why Jeremy said what he did exactly—that I got through it, that my father died but I’m okay now. Whatever Kate has, even if it’s what my father had, surely there’s some treatment now, some way to make it something she can, at least, live with. Whatever it is, it won’t kill Kate—the Coles can afford the best doctors in the world; fly her to Switzerland for the most cutting-edge treatment; hire twenty-four-hour-a-day home care; give her anything she needs.

In the end, I wear jeans. Jeans are so innocuous, and I think it’s innocuous that I’m going for. I pull them on—tight over my hips, looser around my ankles. I even choose the pair that I’ve decided is a particularly ordinary shade of blue, even though they’re last year’s jeans, and not nearly stylish enough.

If I look plain enough, then it won’t look like anything out of the ordinary has happened. But then I think, as I pull my hair into a ponytail, as I deliberately avoid the mascara next to the bathroom sink, that maybe this is too plain. I don’t want Jeremy to think that I don’t care. I want him to know that I understand he was talking about Kate—that I understand him and I know how much this matters. So I put on some lip gloss, but only a little, because I also don’t want him to think this is somehow exciting to me; that I’m curious, selfish, longing for gossip. And certainly the right outfit can’t help me figure out what I’m supposed to say to him.

There is no right way to handle this situation.

Physics is first period. Jeremy is never early to class like I am. They don’t let us into the science classrooms until the teacher shows up, because there are Bunsen burners and all kinds of chemicals in there, and I guess they’re worried about what we’ll touch. So it’s me and the early nerds waiting outside the room for Mr. Kreel, ready to rush in and get the good seats. I’m staring at my feet, and for the first time I think that maybe it’s strange that our school is carpeted.

By the time Jeremy gets to class, I’m sitting perched in the second row, my notebook and pen at the ready, and the teacher is at the front of the room, waiting for everyone to settle down. It’s only the cool kids who wait until the last minute to settle. I swing my legs back and forth on the stool, but then I realize I’m irritating everyone else in my row, so I stop. But then I start clicking my pen so the tip comes in and out, which is probably even more irritating.

Jeremy sits behind me like he always does, so I don’t see his face until class is over and we’re packing up. I’m in full panic mode because nothing that Mr. Kreel said today made sense to me. I want to ask Jeremy for help, but I’m also scared to talk to him, because I don’t know the right things to say.

But he leaves the room without looking at me. I watch his back. How can he be so calm when I’m so nervous? I’ve been so worried all morning about looking, saying, and doing the right thing that I haven’t even thought about my father, and that seems wrong too. I should care about what I now know: he was ill. There was no terrible fall, no fatal accident: he was sick. He was sick, and I think the only reason Jeremy sought me out in the lunchroom that day was because whatever he had is like whatever Kate has and Jeremy thought there might be some wisdom I could impart about how you get through the death of a loved one. He never thought I was cool; he never cared about helping me with physics. That doesn’t make me angry; he was looking for help from me. But I was two years old; a two-year-old doesn’t even know enough to know that she’s getting through something. And I’m just as clueless now. At sixteen, I still haven’t gotten past what happened to my father. How can I have gotten past it when I don’t know what it is?

I think that whatever’s wrong with Kate can somehow tell me what was wrong with my dad.

At lunch, Jeremy finds me at the usual table. I’m waiting for him; I have my physics book with me in case we start working. I hurried so I’d be here if he came looking for me. I didn’t even grab food. Now that he’s here, I realize I’m starving and glance hungrily at the bagel table.

“Sternin. Still no Alexis?” He sits beside me.

“Nope.”

“Well, rehab, you know. She’ll be back in twenty-eight days.”

“That’s the standard. Of course, the really sick ones stay longer.”

“Of course.”

Neither of us thinks this banter is particularly funny, since neither of us thinks that Alexis had a drug problem. I decide to test the waters.

“It’s hard, you know, to see someone making herself sick like that when there are people we love who didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

I can’t believe I really just said that. I certainly don’t mean it. But I go on.

“Maybe,” I continue, “that’s why we’re so fascinated by her when everyone else needs to think it was a drug problem, you know?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Listen, Sternin, no offense, but I don’t like to talk about shit like this in school.”

I’m embarrassed now for bringing it up, for asking that question.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—I probably should … I don’t know.” He looks around the cafeteria. Everyone seems to be having so much more fun than we are. Jeremy would never transform all the kids into knights and ladies, the teachers into earls and duchesses. He’d never understand if I told him that I give the different teachers’ lounges names like the Earldom of Literary Greats, the Duchy of Scientific Stresses. He doesn’t see a royal court; he just sees girls in their short skirts, with tall boots and just the right shoulder bags; boys in baseball caps and loose jeans. How does everyone else spend the time that I spend spinning in my head? I would be bored; then I would be lonely.

Three sophomores walk right past us, blatantly staring at Jeremy. I try not to laugh when one of them slips on her high heel. We’re not supposed to wear high heels to school, and her skirt is so short I can almost see her underwear. Jeremy raises his eyebrows at me to show that he doesn’t find that attractive.

“You looked freaked-out in physics today,” he says finally.

I’m relieved, both for the help he’s offering and because this is a topic I know how to talk about. “Oh God, I really, really was. I didn’t know what was going on.”

“Not to worry, though it doesn’t look like we’re going to get anything done during lunch. Let’s get in some tutoring before tonight’s cig break—I’ll come over around eight, okay?”

Jeremy is a Physics Knight in Shining Armor.

“Okay.”

“Later, Sternin.” And Jeremy leans over and kisses me on the cheek goodbye. In front of everyone. In the lunchroom. I press my calves back against the metal legs of the chair, make myself stay seated, like that kiss was nothing at all.

After school, I change into my pajamas and swallow three Advil without water, hoping that it will cure my new headache, hoping it will go away before Jeremy gets here. I lie on top of the blankets on my bed. They never deal with emotional complexity in fairy tales. Like, how did Cinderella forgive her father—not for dying, but for not putting her first when he chose the woman he would marry? How did Snow White deal with knowing that her beauty led another woman to such madness? How did Rapunzel survive being locked in a tower, not only imprisoned but never able to set her feet on the ground, something that would drive most people crazy? Did she ever run her hands along the stone floor, wondering what dirt would feel like? Did she ever consider jumping out that window? Did she ever want to cut off her own hair, a fairy-tale version of cutting off your nose to spite your face? And, most intriguing and damaging of all, what about her relationship with that wicked witch? How do we even know she was wicked? The witch fed her and put a roof over her head, high and solitary though it might have been.

I prop myself up on my pillows, twist my neck so I can see out the window. We’re twelve floors up, and my bedroom looks out onto Madison Avenue. Sometimes, from this window, I can see my mother coming home from one of her lunches, a walk, the supermarket. Sometimes we go to the market together, but whenever I’m not with her, she still picks up exactly the foods I want; I never have to tell her. She knew when I switched from regular Coke to Diet Coke, and started buying it for me. She notices when we’re running low on cereal, even though she doesn’t eat it, and always makes sure there’s a fresh box and non-expired milk. Maybe the witch thought she was protecting Rapunzel, not punishing her. Maybe she thought that if Rapunzel was locked away, no one could ever hurt her. Maybe the witch kept Rapunzel because she loved her, because she was scared that if other people could get to Rapunzel, they would hurt her. And maybe Rapunzel didn’t understand the witch; maybe she was angry at her—but maybe she loved her too.

10

Jeremy rings the doorbell at eight exactly. He’s in general much more prompt than I would expect him to be.

“Hey, the doorman didn’t buzz you.”

“Nah, they know me by now.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Of course, all those cigarettes.

Jeremy whips out his physics textbook as soon as he gets to my room, so there’s no question of talking first. I’m relieved—I’d actually done the same thing: I’d laid out all my physics stuff so that it would be waiting when he got here. I’m still embarrassed by what happened at lunch, when I tried to talk about Kate and my father.

“Where’s your mom?” he asks after an hour or so of working. We’re sitting on the floor by my bed, and Jeremy’s leaning back against it.

I shrug. “Not sure. She wasn’t home when I got home from school.”

“Don’t you wonder?”

“Not really. I mean, it’s her private life, right? She’s entitled to it.”

Jeremy looks at me strangely. “You mean, she’s on a date?”

“I don’t know. She could be.”

“But you wouldn’t ask?”

I would never ask. I shrug to play it off like it’s nothing. “I guess not.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know if she’s dating someone. I mean, like, she’s worried you’ll feel bad about it.”

“I don’t think I would. She’s never dated anyone seriously that I know of.”

Jeremy tilts his neck so the back of his head rests on top of my bed, stares at my ceiling. I think of all the times I’ve spent lying there, looking at the ceiling above my bed, and I wonder if Jeremy’s noticing the things I see—the places where the paint is peeling, the watermark shaped like a dog’s tail.

“But don’t you know how strange that sounds—that you ‘know of’? She’s your mother.”

This is getting frustrating, someone attacking our carefully choreographed cohabitation. I know some mothers and daughters are closer. And yes, it makes me jealous, even at my age, when I see them out together, holding hands. But I know that we can’t be like that, not since I was a baby, not since the first day of third grade. Maybe there are too many secrets between us: she can’t tell me the truth about my father; I can’t tell her how I’ve been lying about him—about her too, and about me—since I was eight years old.

I try to act nonchalant, but I can feel my muscles tense as I answer him. “I don’t know, I guess we’re not close. We respect each other’s privacy. She doesn’t ask what I’m doing, leaving every night at eleven.”

“Well, that’s weird too.”

“Well, we’re a weird pair, what can I tell you? Whatever we’re doing, it works for us.” I’m exasperated now. “See how normal you’d be if your dad-slash-husband died.” I’m immediately sorry for saying this, because Kate is sick, and for all I know Jeremy might have to find out what his family will be like after a death in it.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy, I didn’t mean to be—” I search for the word. I can’t think of one to use that won’t reference Kate’s illness.

“No, it’s okay. I was being rude. It’s none of my business how your family copes with its loss.”

“I know we’re strange.” I’m so close to telling him that I don’t know about my dad, but the embarrassment takes over. “Most families aren’t like ours.”

“Not like mine either.”

I smile, thinking of their millions of dollars, of their power and prestige. Royal families are a rarity; of course there aren’t many like his.

Jeremy sits up, presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

“I mean, my mother can barely acknowledge what’s happening. She just keeps shopping and going to her lunches and to her charity board meetings and whatever. Even when Kate’s in the hospital. I mean, she visits her and stays with her too; she’s not a bad mom. But Kate was diagnosed months ago, and still it’s like she can’t stand to let this disrupt her … I don’t know, her place in society. And my father—he’s still going to his board meetings; he even went on a business trip last month. Like they don’t think they should be soaking up every second they can—you know, just in case.”

“Maybe your parents know something you don’t,” I say carefully.

“What?”

“Well, maybe the doctors have told them something you don’t know yet.”

Jeremy smiles, but it’s a hopeless kind of smile. I guess if there was some promising news, his parents wouldn’t exactly have kept it from him.

“I was the one—” He pauses, swallows hard. “No one told her, what she had, how sick she was. Like it would be easier for her that way. They finally told her what she had, but they didn’t tell her everything about it. I was the only one—I had to tell her the truth. My parents kept walking around like it was an easy fix. But when she asked me, I told her the truth. It wasn’t fair. I mean, there she was, Googling her disease, trying to find out what it meant. If it were me—I would have been more scared, you know, not knowing how serious it was.”

“Jeremy,” I say, feeling brave, “what’s wrong with Kate? I mean, you never said—what is she sick with?”

Jeremy looks at the floor. “She has leukemia. Same as your dad.”

Same as my dad. My dad had leukemia. I always thought of that as something kids had, but of course adults can have it too. Of course they can.

I begin to cry. There’s none of the usual warning, no lump rising in my throat, no tears building up slowly. Suddenly I’m just crying harder than I can ever remember crying. I don’t know if I’m crying for my dad; for my mom, out I don’t know where or with whom; for Kate, the sweet princess who’s sick; for Jeremy, who could lose the sister he loves; or for myself.

And if I’m crying for myself, I don’t know why either. Because I miss my dad? How can I, when I don’t remember him? Am I crying because Jeremy told me what my family couldn’t? Because I’m relieved that the search is finally over?
Is
my search over? Am I crying because I miss my mother, even though I see her every day?

I don’t see him move, but just like that, Jeremy has slid across the hardwood floor and he’s hugging me tight. He must have some built-in big-brother ability to hug so fast like that. My shoulder where his chin rests is wet, so I know he’s crying too, and so I don’t even try to stop. I don’t try to cover up or pretend it’s nothing. We’re both crying hard and messily. There’s snot on my face, and I’m not even embarrassed when I wipe it on his shirt because I know it’s on Jeremy’s face too. Who knew a prince could cry so much?

I don’t know how much times passes, but eventually we both stop and we’re out of breath.

“Can I ask you something?” I want his permission first.

“Sure.”

“How is Kate—now, I mean?”

“She’s back at home, but she’s not … They cut her hair, Con. She loved her hair, but they cut it so that it won’t be so messy when it starts falling out. She cried the whole time. I held her hand and she cried. My mother hired some famous hairdresser to do it, and Kate made a joke that it was a waste of a good cut when it was only temporary”—he smiles, remembering her joke—“and I said nothing was ever wasted on her. It was just so hard, you know, ’cause I had to pretend like it wasn’t a big deal when I was just as upset about it as she was.”

I think about that hair—long, blond, wavy; the kind of hair every girl wishes she had.

“It must have been awful.”

“I’m stupid enough to think that it must be harder for me and my parents than it is for her. ’cause we might have to lose her.”

Then Jeremy smiles at me like he just remembered something.

“Cigarette?” he says, and I smile too. It feels good to have that routine, smoking together, still in place.

“Sounds good,” I say, and I press up off the floor. We stand normally—not particularly close, not too far apart, but just like we would have an hour ago, without any leftover intimacy.

Downstairs, Jeremy says, “You know, Sternin, I’ve begun to really look forward to these bedtime cigarettes.”

“Me too,” I say, and I wonder what I look like. Jeremy’s face is blotchy from crying, and I know mine must be too. I’m wearing a bulky sweater and a scarf. How come boys never seem to feel cold?

“Sternin, I know I don’t have to ask you this, so don’t be hurt or anything, but please don’t talk about it around school, okay?”

“Of course not. It’s your family’s business, no one else’s.”

“Thanks, Sternin.” Jeremy looks relieved.

“And I won’t tell people, you know, that I know about your dad. I know everyone thinks that your parents are divorced.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s kind of my fault.”

“Yeah?” he says, without any shock or judgment.

“That’s what I’ve always said. That he lives in Arizona.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I guess I thought it would be easier.”

“Has it been?”

I exhale until my chest feels hollow. “I guess it used to be.”

Jeremy crushes his cigarette and looks like he’s thinking very hard. Then he looks back up at me.

“Yeah, but why Arizona?”

I burst out laughing and Jeremy grins at me, proud that he made me laugh. I want to thank him. For making a joke, for not judging my lie, and also for telling me about the cancer because he trusted me with his family’s secret and, without even knowing it, helped me figure out my family’s.

We don’t hug each other good night. Jeremy gives me a kiss on the cheek and gets into a cab. I am suddenly so exhausted. It’s like the crying wore me out completely. I fall asleep without any fantasies, and I don’t remember any of my dreams when I wake up.

On Wednesday, Jeremy sits next to me at lunch, and after a few minutes a couple of his friends sit down on his other side. I slouch in my plastic chair. I always watch the cool boys, but I’ve never gotten to do it this close-up.

“Dude,” says Mike Cohen, “Fisher’s party is going to be sick.”

Mike means Brent Fisher, Marcy’s new boyfriend.

“Yeah,” says Jeremy.

There’s no question whether or not Jeremy is going; even I know that. New York City high schools are so incestuous that if you refused to go to a party that was affiliated in some way with some ex, you’d quickly run out of parties to go to. Besides, a prince is above such trifles. A prince must make his appearance at all the top engagements.

“Where’re his parents, anyway?” continues Mike. “Fucking Madagascar?”

“Madrid, idiot,” cuts in Ellis White, sitting next to Mike.

“Whatever, man. Fisher’s getting a keg.”

I don’t understand this, since I don’t really drink, but I think all high school boys see the availability of a keg as a kind of wide-open treasure chest, all those riches there for the taking. Even Jeremy, who I know gets to sample all the finest wines and mixed drinks at his family’s parties, is turned on by the idea.

“Right on, man,” Jeremy says, and then Mike looks around Jeremy at me. “You’re coming, Sternin, right?”

I didn’t even know that he saw me there, sitting on Jeremy’s other side. He hadn’t acknowledged me till now. I’ve just taken a bite of my sandwich, so I have some time to chew before answering. I’m excited that whether or not I’m invited isn’t a question. I’m Jeremy’s friend now, I guess. People have noticed us sitting here almost every day. For all I know, he’s told people he comes over to study and for cigarettes, though I’m pretty sure he hasn’t.

Luckily, Mike speaks before I can respond. “All right, Sternin. It’s gonna be a rage.”

I don’t know what “It’s gonna be a rage” actually means, but I know I can’t ask. At least I can tell it’s a good thing, so I smile and say, “Sounds awesome,” hoping my use of “awesome” isn’t too passé.

Peanut butter from my sandwich sticks to the roof of my mouth. I feel so much younger than they are; is this how Kate feels when she hangs out with Jeremy’s friends? I can’t imagine her ever feeling so awkward. She knows the right things to say.

After Mike and Ellis leave our table, Jeremy turns to me and whispers, “What the hell does ‘It’s gonna be a rage’ mean?” I feel my lips widen into a grin. Jeremy has no idea how happy he’s made me.