The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs (11 page)

“Why are you defending her?”

“I don't know,” Caroline said. “I just think, well, that I probably played a part in everything that happened, too. It wasn't all Emily. She wasn't
required
to be my friend.”

“You're an idiot. If that had happened today, Emily would be sitting in the principal's office with her parents. Kids kill themselves over shit like this. You didn't lose your friends. She stole them from you.”

“So you don't think it's a bad idea? Going back to find her?”

“I didn't say that. I think it's a great idea, but it might be a great bad idea. I'm worried that it sounds better than it actually is.”

“Now you've lost me.”

“I assume that Emily still lives in Blackstone?”

“Yes,” Caroline said.

“Figures.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning people like Emily never leave their hometowns. As long as she stays in Blackstone, she'll always be the goddamn prom queen. If she ever moved, she'd just be the girl who likes to tell everyone that she was once the prom queen.”

“Okay.” Caroline didn't argue the point.

“So let's say you find her and tell her off. Tell her to go to hell. Tell her that she was a bitch in high school. What does that get you?”

“Satisfaction?”

“Only if your words hurt her in some way,” Wendy said. “If she just fires back and calls you a loser or tells you to fuck off and walks away, what good was the trip?”

“Do you think I'm pathetic for even thinking this was a good idea?”

“Of course I don't. Caroline, you are one of the best people I know. You're smart and honest and kind. You're a good mother to Polly, which—you and I know—can't be easy at times. And you've got a great marriage. A great husband.”

“Thanks, Wen—”

“Don't interrupt me. You're gifted, too. If you'd stop being such a coward and let me see more of your pictures, I think I'd find that you're a more talented photographer that I've seen already.”

Caroline warmed inside. “Thanks, Wendy,” she said quietly.

“So we've had the Hallmark moment. Back to Emily Kaplan.” Caroline laughed. This was the Wendy she knew and loved. “What if she tells you to fuck off? What if she just walks away? Do you feel any better then?”

“I don't know. But I know that at this moment, I feel good.”

“Okay,” Wendy said, sounding less than convinced. “I just don't want this to go bad for you. It really is a little crazy.”

“I know.”

“What does Polly think of it?”

“She thinks I'm nuts, too,” Caroline said. “But it's better than getting suspended. And I think she sees it as an adventure. We're actually getting along a little.”

“But if it doesn't last, just remember: It's not you. Teenage girls are fickle. And despicable.”

“You're telling me?” Caroline laughed a little. “Anyway, who knows? Maybe she's finally coming out the other side.”

“Maybe,” Wendy said, sounding unconvinced. “And I think it's great that she's with you. Just don't screw this up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I'm serious,” Wendy said. “This is the kind of thing that works well in the movies but bombs in real life. Just be ready for that.”

“Even if I bomb, at least I tried.”

“Sure. I can just hear you saying that after Emily skewers you and sends you home in tears.
At least I tried!
Rainbows and kittens.”

“You don't have a lot of faith in me,” Caroline said.

“I have plenty of faith in you. But I have plenty of faith in Emily Kaplan, too. If she's anything like she was in high school, you'll have your hands full.”

eleven

“How's your king-sized bed?” Polly asked across the darkened room. “Better than a stupid cot?”

Caroline could hear the smile in her daughter's voice.

“It's not bad,” Caroline said. “A little lumpy, but it'll do for one night.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You did a good job,” Caroline said. “Better than I could've done.”

“Better than you
did
,” Polly said.

“Where did you learn how to do that anyway?” she asked.

“Geez, Mom. Watch a movie sometime. Read a blog. It wasn't exactly rocket science.”

“I'm not talking about what you did.” (Though that had impressed her more than she was willing to admit.) “I meant
how you did it
. You certainly didn't get nerve like that from me. Or your father for that matter.”

Silence filled the darkened room. Caroline decided not to press further.

“I sometimes wonder if I'm the person I'm supposed to be,” Polly said. He voice was quiet. Almost distant. “Or if I'm just filling the only role left over.”

Whoa.

Polly had just shared something from the inside, a place where Caroline had been shut out for years. She'd have to choose her next words carefully, afraid to say the wrong thing. After a second of debate, she opted for a nonthreatening, “Huh?”

“Dad always says that I was a late bloomer. Maybe that explains it a little. I feel like by the time I was ready to be the person I was supposed to be, all the good jobs were taken.”

Caroline waited for Polly to continue, hoping that silence would serve as a sufficient prompt. When it didn't, she said, “Jobs?” trying to achieve the perfect blend of casual interest and disinterest—just enough to let her daughter know she wasn't being interrogated.

“Not jobs exactly,” Polly said. “Roles. Like parts in a play. All the good parts were taken. The pretty girl parts. The jocks. Even the genius kids who'll go to Harvard or Yale someday. Those parts were filled, too. I got left filling in the little parts. The ones no one else wanted.”

“Like what?” Caroline asked, fearing that the wrong question would shut her daughter down completely.

“The smart-ass,” Polly said. “The hard-ass.” After a moment, she added, “The pain in the ass.”

The smile was gone from Polly's voice.

“It's not that I don't like my part,” she said. “I like it a lot. The articles in the school newspaper. My newsletter. The protests. The debate team. I believe in those things. I like who I am. But I would've liked the chance to be one of the pretty girls, too. I mean, isn't there a place in the pretty girl clique for a short brunette? I don't mean to sound superficial, but sometimes I just want to be pretty.”

It was as if Polly were speaking to both Caroline and herself at the same time.

“And I know I could've been one of the smart girls. The ones who sit in the front of the class and nod whenever the teacher is talking. I'm smart enough, but there's more to it than that, and it doesn't really come naturally to me. Like last week when Emma Cobb asked Mr. Drake if she could do extra credit right after Zachary asked for an extension on his midterm—the one that's due in a couple of days. Emma knows that the best time to shine is right after someone acts like an idiot, so her extra-credit question was worth two or three times more than it would have been. Because she knew when to ask. I'm not socially awkward or anything, but I feel like it takes me a little longer to figure those kinds of things out.”

“That's really how you feel?” Caroline said, astonished.

“Yeah, I do. Dad always says I'm just finding my own way. You think I'm crazy. Grandma says I'm an agitator. Mr. Cronin once called me an anarchist, and even though I know he was kidding, I think he was only half kidding.”

Caroline laughed. It was true. She did think that Polly was crazy. At least a little.

“The problem is there's only room for one anarchist per school. So kids respect me, but they don't think of me as friendship material.”

“I'm sorry, honey.” Caroline was trying hard to conceal the devastation she felt.

Polly plowed forward. “All of it leaves me wondering: Am I a lonely anarchist because I was supposed to be a lonely anarchist, or was that just the crack I managed to squeeze into when parts were being chosen? Was that all there was left for me? And what if I'd found a seat at Misty Dean's table at lunch during that first week of school? Would I be a popular girl instead? Or if I hadn't forgotten about field hockey tryouts when I was a freshman, would I be a sporty girl now? Maybe I didn't need to be the person who worries about equal funding for the girls' soccer team. I don't even like soccer.”

Caroline opened her mouth to speak but Polly seemed to anticipate this.

“Don't worry, Mom. It was a rhetorical question. I'm not looking for you to tackle any major philosophical questions tonight.”

“Thanks for talking to me about it,” Caroline said, breathing a sigh of relief. “It means a lot that you told me.”

“I figured I owed you. You told me about Emily Kaplan, so I thought I should throw you a bone.”

“Throw me a bone?”

“Yeah,” Polly said. The smile had returned to her face. “I wasn't going to tell you about losing my virginity or anything like that. But I thought I owed you something.”

“Gee, thanks,” Caroline said, praying that the virginity comment was just a joke.

twelve

In an ideal world, Caroline would've driven directly to Emily Kaplan's house, knocked on her front door, said what she had to say, and left town without her mother ever knowing that she had ever been there.

This world was anything but ideal.

Caroline's mother had mentioned months ago that Emily was still living in Blackstone. “She owns that goddamn knickknack store,” she had said. But Caroline didn't know where Emily Kaplan, whose last name was no longer Kaplan, lived. She would need her mother to provide that information, and that would not come without many questions.

Questions Caroline wanted to avoid.

Penelope Waters still lived in the same small house on Main Street that she had moved into with her daughters after her husband had left. She had transformed the shabby rental into one of the better homes on the street—only now, it wasn't a rental. Penelope bought it after Caroline had finished school. She had put the house together, as she had put her life back together, bit by bit. With a lot of work and what Caroline assumed had been a significant financial investment, the house no longer resembled the run-down eyesore that had embarrassed Caroline as a teenager. The house, which now served as her mother's place of business as well as her home, abutted the Blackstone River. What was once a trash-strewn embankment leading to the water had been transformed into a gentle, rocky slope. The house itself—red with white shutters—was surrounded by a pristine front lawn and immaculate landscaping. A wide front porch, another post-Caroline addition, gave the home a welcoming air. Caroline often wondered why her mother had chosen to remain here when she could've moved to a better home in a better location long ago. She suspected it had something to do with Lucy.

Caroline pulled into the driveway, maneuvering her car alongside a black minivan and her mother's Buick. For a moment, she considered turning around and coming back later. The minivan was undoubtedly a customer's car. And Caroline hated to be around when her mother was working.

Not Polly. She leaned forward in her seat. “Oh good!” she said. “Maybe Nana has a customer.”

“I'll never understand your fascination with her business,” Caroline said.

“You should be proud of Nana. She's doing something she totally made up. She's like an inventor. Like Steve Jobs or that asshole, Thomas Edison.”

“No kidding,” Caroline said, thinking about Tom's odd assemblage of careers. No one in her family seemed to be able to hold down a normal job. “Wait. Thomas Edison was an asshole?”

“Mom, he used to electrocute elephants just to prove that his electrical system was better than Tesla's.”

“Was it?”

“If it was really better, would he be electrocuting elephants?”

“Good point,” she said. “And by the way, Steve Jobs was kind of an asshole, too.”

“I'll give you that. But he didn't murder pachyderms.”

Polly rang the bell. The door opened a moment later to reveal a sixty-five-year old woman who looked and moved as if she were at least fifteen years younger. Penelope Waters had short, blond hair, a petite figure and a perpetual smile, which was bizarre, because when Caroline was growing up, her mother had rarely smiled, never laughed, and did everything she could to avoid conversation. Caroline understood her mother's depression. She had been depressed herself. But she couldn't help but resent her mother's miraculous resurgence after she had left for college. She was a person who Caroline barely recognized. In many ways, she no longer felt like she knew the woman who had once been her mother.

“Hi, Nana!” Polly said, stepping into the kitchen.

“Your mother didn't tell me you were coming, too.”

“I didn't?” Caroline said.

“You most certainly didn't. Not that it's a big deal. I'm always happy to see my Polymath! She can sleep on the pullout.”

“Sorry,” Caroline said. “I didn't mean to not tell you. And we might not be staying overnight anyway.”

“Mom has a lot on her mind,” Polly said with a wry smile. “She's plotting revenge.”

“Really?” Her mother sounded overly invested already. “Revenge against who?”

“No one,” Caroline said.

“Emily Kaplan,” Polly said. “The Wicked Bitch of the West.”

“Polly!” Caroline said.

“What is she talking about?” her mother asked.

“Can I please take off my coat before you start grilling me?”

“Fine. I have a customer in the living room anyway. We're almost finished. Put your things in the guest room and come join us. You might be of some help.”