Things I’ll Never Say (2 page)

“Hi, sweetie!” Mom calls as she comes in from the garage. She's got a bucket of chicken in one hand and a plastic bottle of iced tea in the other. More stuff that will never leave. I try not to think about it.

“Chicken again?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.

“I love the spicy coating they use at that new place,” Mom says, but she blushes. It embarrasses her that she can't cook in her own kitchen anymore. Maybe she's even more embarrassed by it than I am. I don't know. We don't talk about it.

We put the chicken pieces on the two clean plates and pour ourselves glasses of iced tea. Dinner is always eaten in the living room because that's the only place we can sit down. I manage to keep enough space clear on the couch for us to sit, side by side, surrounded by stacks of laundry (clean or dirty, who can remember?) that lean against our shoulders like hungry ghosts. There are two chairs in the living room, too, but they've been buried in trash since my father moved out nine years ago.

“How was your day?” Mom asks.

“Okay. Um, Claire thinks we should go to the Sophomore Semiformal this weekend.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun!” She grins and claps her hands. I know she means it sounds
normal.
More than anything, she wants me to be normal, in spite of the way we live.

“Yeah, I guess. I need something to wear, though.” I don't know why I'm even bringing this up. Mom barely makes enough money to pay for these greasy take-out dinners every night. There's not enough left for a pretty dress, short and sleeveless. And she'll feel bad that there isn't.

“I can probably borrow something from Claire,” I say quickly as her face clouds over. I used to do that a lot before my hips got so wide that I ripped out the seams in one of her favorite skirts. “Or maybe Maya.” Maya is closer to my size, but of course I could never ask her. I'd have to reveal too much.

“That's your new friend, isn't it?” Mom's eyes are glittery. “Maybe she could come over sometime. I'd like to meet her.”

I nod. “Uh-huh.” This is a game we play. The We-Are-Like-Everybody-Else game. Even though we both know that Maya is never going to set foot inside our poor, ruined house.

“Try this on,” Claire says as she shoves a shiny purple cocktail dress at me.

I push it back at her. “No! It's your mother's!”

Maya has come with us to Claire's house on this mission to find an outfit in which I will not look completely pathetic or ridiculous, and I'm mortified to have her here, watching. She perches on Claire's mother's white bedspread as Claire rummages through the closet.

“Mom doesn't care. She said you could wear anything that fits.”

“But I'm not as . . . big . . . as your mother.” Do I really need to point this out? Claire's mother is beautiful, but she weighs twice as much as I do.

“This is an old dress. It's too small for her now. And besides, she said she'd take it in for you. Hem it up. Whatever.”

Claire's mother and mine used to be friends before things got so bad. She's always trying to help me out, and I usually appreciate it, but
really
? Now I have to wear her old, outgrown, hemmed-up, middle-aged-lady clothes?

I take the hanger with the baggy purple dress from Claire and try not to look at Maya. Does she think I'm too poor to buy my own clothes? That's embarrassing enough. If she knows anything
more
than that, I will pass out right here on the thick beige carpet. But how could she? Claire is the only one who knows, and she won't tell.

I slip the dress over my head and pull it down. Before I even look in a mirror, I know it's monstrously too big. The straps fall down over my shoulders and the waist sits on my hips.

Claire laughs. “Oops. I guess not.” She turns back to the closet. “There must be
something
in here you can wear.”

“I bet you could wear one of my dresses,” Maya says. “We're about the same size.”

“Oh, that's okay,” I say, my cheeks burning with shame. “I can just wear . . .” But there's no end for that sentence. There's nothing for me to wear at my house. The only clean clothes I have are a few pairs of jeans and three or four T-shirts that never leave my bedroom except when I sneak them to the Laundromat. The other clothes that are piled around the house have mostly been in those piles for a decade, and if I move anything, Mom will know. Anyway, a pretty dress is not suddenly going to appear from beneath all that muck.

“Or, wait!” Maya jumps off the bed. “You know what would be fun? Let's go to the Goodwill and try stuff on!”

Oh, my God! She thinks I'm so poor I need to shop at the Goodwill! Which, in fact,
is
where I got the jeans and T-shirts I wear, but even Claire doesn't know that.

But Maya keeps talking. “We used to always go to the Goodwill in Burlington. You can find stuff for just a few dollars that's hardly been worn!”

Claire wrinkles her nose. “I don't want to wear somebody else's clothes.”

Maya puts her hands on her hips. “Why not? You were just trying to get Lucy to wear your mother's old clothes. What's the difference?”

“Well, for one thing, my mother takes care of her clothes. Her clothes are clean.”

“The clothes at Goodwill are clean. Sometimes they're new, with the original tags still on them.”

Claire glares at me. “Lucy doesn't want to buy somebody else's crummy old dress, do you, Lucy?” What she means is
Lucy does what I tell her to do.

But Maya's excitement has infected me, and I forget for a moment that I have to do whatever Claire says. The few times I've gone to the Goodwill before, I've darted in and out quickly, hoping no one I know would see me. But Maya wants to go for
fun
— as if it's an adventure.

“Actually, I like the idea of shopping at the Goodwill,” I say. “But I'll have to go home and get some money first.” Thank God I haven't spent the twenty-five dollars my dad sent me for my birthday. That'll go a long way at Goodwill. “Why don't you guys go on over and I'll meet you there?”

But then I see the furious look in Claire's eyes and I know I'm in trouble.

“Your house is on the way,” she says. “We might as well go with you.”

“My key only opens the back door,” I lie, as they follow me through the maze of junk in the garage. Even though she's been here before, Claire's looking all around as if she's never seen so much crap in her life. Maya is sneaking little looks, too, but pretending not to.

Okay, I think, Claire is teaching me a lesson. I'm supposed to agree with her, always, and lately I haven't been keeping up my end of the bargain. But she's my friend. She wouldn't betray me now, not after all these years. My hands tremble as I put the key into the lock. I turn to look at Claire once more, hoping that my eyes communicate with her the way hers do with me.
I trust you
, I tell her.
I've always trusted you. Please don't do this.

“I'll run in quickly,” I say, opening the door just far enough to squeeze through. “You guys can wait —”

“Let's all go in,” Claire says, and she shoves the door open wide.

And there it is: the kitchen, in all its rotten, filthy chaos. Claire stands back so Maya has a good view of the horror. I turn to see what she's seeing, and my stomach lurches. There's a skinny pathway through the junk from the door to the sink, piled high with crusty dishes, and from there to the broken refrigerator, whose door no longer closes and whose shelves display garbage. I'm pretty sure Maya can smell the decay of my life from the doorstep, where she's stopped to gape in astonishment.

“Looks like your mom didn't have time to clean up today,” Claire says, smirking.

I don't even look at Claire. Now I'll never have to look at her again, which I realize immediately is at least one good thing. But Maya's eyes are on me, her expression so sad and sympathetic I want to scream. Which I do.

“Go away! Both of you! Just go away!” I slam the door in their faces and lock it, as if they were just dying to get inside my craptastic house.

I know I'm going to throw up, so I head for the bathroom. The sink in there is full of empty shampoo bottles and hairbrushes and whatever else, but thank God the toilet is usable. How long Claire and Maya stand in the garage, I have no idea. All I can manage to do for the next hour or so is lean on the porcelain bowl and empty out the lie I've been telling myself for years: that Claire is my friend, my best and only trusted friend.

By the time Mom gets home from work, I'm lying on my bed. I tell her I'm not feeling well, and she doesn't ask questions. She knows that sometimes I just have to be alone in my room, the one space in the house that is not filled with trash.

I hear the doorbell, but I don't get up. Every now and then somebody comes by to get us to sign a petition or to convert us to their religion or something, but we never answer the bell and before long they go away. Only this time I think I hear my mother talking to someone. In our house. Which is impossible.

I'm just about to get up and see what's going on when there's a knock at my door. Mom sticks her head in.

“Are you feeling better? Your friend is here,” she says.

I jump up. “Claire's here? Tell her to go away!”

But when the door opens, it's Maya who's standing there next to my mother. “Can I come in?” she asks.

I don't know what to say, but she walks in anyway.

“So nice to meet you, Maya,” Mom says as she backs away. “Come over anytime.”

Maya and I stand and stare at each other for what feels like half an hour.

Finally she says, “Your mom seems nice.”

I sigh. “Yeah, she
is
nice. Even though she's crazy.”

Maya smiles. “A lot of mothers are crazy.” She looks around at my neat shelves and my shoes lined up by the bureau. “Your room is pretty.”

I make a grunting sound in my throat. “You mean it's not a complete disaster like the rest of my house.”

“No, I mean it's a pretty room. I love flowered wallpaper and lace curtains. Our house is all modern and boring.”

I don't know what to say. My throat is thick with dread and I'm freezing cold.

“I stopped by to bring you this,” she says, and I notice that she has a shopping bag in her hand. She reaches into it and pulls out a simple red dress, short, sleeveless. “I found it at the Goodwill. It looks brand-new and it was only eight dollars, can you believe it? I tried it on and it fit me, so I figure there's a good chance it'll fit you, too.”

“I . . . You bought me a dress?”

“If you hate it, I can keep it. But I thought, with your dark hair, this color would look really good.”

“But . . . I'm not going to that dance.”

“Oh, please come, Lucy! Otherwise I won't have anyone to go with.”

“Isn't
Claire
going?” I can't pronounce her name without feeling nauseous again.

“I don't know. I'm not speaking to Claire anymore. I don't like her very much.”

I sit on my bed and Maya sits next to me.

“I thought Claire was my best friend,” I say. “I thought she was the only person who'd keep my secret.”

“I knew a girl like her in Burlington,” Maya says. “She was great as long as you did everything the way she wanted you to do it.”

It hits me that Maya is absolutely right. Claire's been bossing me around for years because she knows I'm afraid she'll tell my secret. But Maya knows the truth now, too, and she doesn't even seem to care. She thinks my mother's nice, and she likes my wallpaper! I take a deep breath, and it seems like the first one I've taken in a long time. I can feel a smile, a rare, real smile, start in my chest and spread up and out until it reaches my lips.

“I've been keeping my mom a secret for a long time,” I say. “And I guess I've been keeping a secret from myself too.”

“What's the secret you've been keeping from yourself?” Maya asks.

“That I don't like my best friend!”

I burst out laughing and Maya laughs with me. And when we're done laughing, I try on my new red dress, and it fits me perfectly.

The old-world-style crystal chandeliers offer majesty, the midnight-blue carpeting, mystery . . . and the black leather seating, sensuality. But the holiday centerpieces are freaking unforgivable.

“Those are not
cherubim
!” I exclaim, vexed that I have to keep explaining this to people.

“At least they're glittery, Joshua,” my teenage assignment points out, lifting her goblet of warmed porcine blood. Her smile is smug. “Don't forget the glitter.”

I wave my sparkly magenta fingernails. “As if I would.”

She's having fun teasing me. The handblown art-glass Cupids are less tacky than they sound. But as an angel of the order guardian (or GA), I have a solemn duty to speak up on behalf of my fellow winged ones. I'm compelled to rail against dicey decor and other gross injustices resulting from the cacophony of humanity that further separate the divinity of heaven from this earth.