Believe (7 page)

THIRTEEN

No surprise, I dreamed about my mother.

But it wasn't my usual dream. I was not under the rubble. I was not fighting for my life. She didn't save me. I didn't hear her telling me anything that anyone could reinterpret later.

Tonight Mom was working. She sat at her desk with her feet up, just like she did in the picture. Today she was wearing all white. There was an arrangement of white flowers on her desk—the epitome of elegance and reverence and good taste. She also chewed the end of a pencil.

“Mom.” I felt a sharp, searing cramp in both wrists—but I didn't worry. She was here. In my room. The flowers smelled great. I didn't care that it was a dream.

I also didn't complain when she wagged her finger the way Lo did when she was annoyed. “One of your friends has loose lips. All that insider information? Those pictures? They were not public property.”

“I don't want to talk about that.” I wanted to talk to her. My mother. Here in my room. She looked so alive, so real, it was easy to forget that she was dead. “What are you doing here? Is there something you need to tell me about today?”

I waited for her to get up and kiss me or give me some maternal lesson, but she stayed at her desk and motioned to someone behind me. I could hardly stand it—I was sure it was my dad.

It wasn't.

Instead, out stepped the old lady reporter. In my dream she wore a red skirt. A red shirt. A red jacket. Even her eyes were red. “I guess you are supposed to be the devil,” I said. My mother rolled her eyes.

Journalist as devil; mother as angel. I wasn't really all that creative.

Still, I tried to focus. “Why did you bring her?”

The old lady said, “Think of this as one of those old fairy tales you used to like so much. It shouldn't be too hard. You are the orphan princess.” Now she smiled at my mother.

My mom begged me to forgive her. Then she said to the devil, “Just get it over with.”

The devil sat on the edge of my bed. “In that last interview you did a few years back, you said you wanted pretty hands—that you hated your scars. That your hands were what made you miserable. That if it weren't for your hands, you could live a normal life.”

All these things were true. These scars, those operations—they made people crazy. They meant things to people that they didn't mean to me.

She said, “So I have a special surprise for you. Look at them.” She held out her hands for a big hug. “Don't hold back. Whenever you're ready, you can thank me.”

For a second, I thought I had it all wrong. She wasn't the devil; she was my fairy godmother. I examined my hands, and I couldn't believe it—they were better than perfect. My skin looked pure white. The scars vanished. I started to say something to my mother, but when I looked up, she was gone.

Something was not right.

I asked, “What is happening?” I didn't want to complain, but my hands felt funny—sort of numb. And hard. My fingers were stiff—even worse than usual. When I got up to look for my mom, my beautiful hands would not move. They didn't bend. They couldn't do anything.

I asked, “What did you do to me? Where is my mom?”

The old lady acted like everything that was happening was no big deal. “Don't make a big stink. You hated your old hands, so the devil gave you a new pair.”

That's when the dream turned manic.

My hands were made of wood. I tasted dust and rock. It was hard to breathe. I looked for my mom or Lo, but I was alone. My ears rang. I needed to get out. Emir appeared, strapped to a thousand tons of dynamite. I told him, “She cut off my hands.”

He grabbed my wrists hard, and those perfect hands fell to the ground. The world exploded. All I had were stubs—ugly, shriveled stubs. It took Lo an hour to get me to stop screaming.

In the morning, my sheets were soaked and my hands were stiff, but they were mine. As I stared into my closet, looking for the right answer to the usual question (what should I wear), Lo asked if I remembered anything.

I did. The whole thing. “But I know it was just a dream.”

“You're not upset?”

“I have a weird imagination.”

I pulled out a short-sleeved sweater, and we walked down the stairs to the kitchen table. Sharon was cooking eggs. She had taken down Lo's favorite teapot—a cast iron pot with a lotus flower etched into the side. Lo had three shelves' worth of pots. There were pots that looked like ovens, pots that looked like carriages, and some that were just plain weird. My favorite was the pot that looked like a vintage radio. Sharon liked the yellow ceramic Coleman's Mustard pot. Although Lo couldn't remember why she started collecting teapots, they did brighten up the room.

When I was halfway through my omelet, Miriam walked in the side door. “The word is, he's doing just fine,” she announced. Right behind her was Samantha Strahan. This was not completely unexpected—Samantha walked to school with us when she didn't have lacrosse practice or soccer practice or she wasn't the lead in the play—but all things considered, it wasn't a pleasant development.

Samantha was Miriam's outside-the-tripod friend, which meant I couldn't tell her to go. She was also a senior. Miriam once told me that she respected Samantha because she took her life seriously.

“As opposed to me?” I'd asked.

Since they were here with plenty of time to spare, Lo convinced them to sit down at the table and drink tea. “Did you hear about the tree?” Samantha always spoke with precise enunciation, like she was on stage and she had to project.

“Yes,” I said, putting down the mugs a little too hard. “I was with Miriam when she found out.” I wasn't jealous.

Well, only a little.

Their friendship was a temporary fascination, like a crush, only slightly weird, because Samantha was a girl (which made her harder to break up with). Every time I saw Samantha, I wanted to like her—I tried to like her—I was determined to at the very least admire her—but somehow, I always failed.

There were real, logical reasons for this besides jealousy: She talked nonstop. And she pronounced every syllable—even the ones that were supposed to be silent. She mostly dressed in that non-style also known as “granola,” which was really not a good look on anyone.

She was everything that writers and readers wanted me to be—the president of four clubs, star of this year's musical, a pretty decent athlete, and according to her (not to brag) a lock for co-valedictorian. No matter what was going on, she was always extra positive, which shouldn't have bugged me, except when she was around, somehow, I always came off extra negative. She was already into her first choice (Brown) early decision.

In general, when someone seemed that perfect, they never were, but in this case, Miriam was completely snowed. She thought Samantha was officially one of the most amazing, smart, interesting, and humble people she had ever met and, worse than that, she really wanted us to be friends. She said that Samantha was nervous around me. That she thought I was the amazing one. That she would give anything to be as famous as me.

That got on my nerves most of all.

I finished eating while they sipped their drinks.

“I like your top,” I told Samantha. I wasn't just trying to be nice. She wore a short-sleeved sweater covered with embroidered eyeglasses. Since she normally looked so bland, I considered it my civic duty to give her positive reinforcement.

Miriam was wearing a semi-sheer blouse. Dry Clean Only. And trendy flowered jeans.

Naturally, Lo assumed I'd forgotten something. (I was pretty sure she thought Samantha was exceptional, too.) “Why are you dressed up? Is something special going on?”

Miriam almost spit her tea. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “You don't know?”

Lo shrugged, and I said, “No. Should I?” I hoped she wasn't talking about Abe. It couldn't be the retrospective—she wouldn't dare—and although the tree and the farm were important to them, I was pretty sure even Samantha wasn't skilled enough to put together a protest that fast. Maybe she was getting a prize from the principal.

“It's all over Facebook,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Roxanne Wheeler is coming to school. She's doing a story about Abe.”

FOURTEEN

My first instinct was to laugh. This had to be a joke.

Roxanne Wheeler may not have been prime time, but her biweekly column was syndicated in fifty-seven newspapers. Every once in a while she filled in on the Philadelphia news affiliate. When she first started working for the
Morning Call
, people dubbed her “the eyes and ears of the Lehigh Valley.” Lately, her articles had been a little on the fluffy side, but she was still too big for a gossipy story and James Madison High School. No matter how hard it was to come up with new material, I couldn't imagine her stooping to this.

Lo called the principal to discuss security. After ten minutes of yes, no, and “I don't think that's smart,” she told me to go upstairs and relax. “We think you should stay home. Don't be a fool, Janine. That woman is ambitious. Didn't yesterday teach you anything?”

In Roxanne's official bio, she claimed her idols were Katharine Graham, who oversaw the
Washington Post
's coverage of Watergate, and Michael Kelly, who was one of
the reporters who died in Iraq. He was also famous for being a fantastic human being and tenacious reporter, as well as the editor of a writer who made up all his articles.

Roxanne grew up reading the
New York Times,
the
Post,
and
The Atlantic,
but if you asked me, her style was definitely more
People
. She was quoted as saying, “I grew up believing you had to dig for the truth. That there was always a story inside the story.”

Normally, I'd be happy to take the day off. Normally, I would acknowledge Roxanne's ambition and the interest people might have in this story. After yesterday, I should have demanded it. But not today. Today was the day I'd been working toward for the last six months. It was my official portfolio day—and I didn't want to postpone it. “If she shows—which I sincerely doubt—I'll just tell her
no thank you
.”

Miriam looked half-confused, half-annoyed. “I don't believe it.” Her voice cracked.

“Why not?” What else should I do? I had no intention of putting my life on hold.

“Well, that's great,” Samantha said. “Good for you.” I was pretty sure Miriam and Samantha were kicking each other under the table. They were excited—starstruck—imagining the possibilities, no matter how unrealistic they were.

Around here, Roxanne was practically a celebrity herself. Samantha said, “It's common knowledge she's still loyal to the area. That she keeps up with all the local news.” She smiled at Miriam. “Plus Abe said she was really nice. He said she seemed like the kind of person who might help us.”

Miriam looked a little smug. “Last night, they talked for over two hours.”

Now I felt like I had to throw up. “Two hours? Are you sure?” All hopes of sounding cool about this just went out the window. If Abe had told her he believed I healed him, Roxanne was going to be relentless.

My mother would have been, too.

Miriam told me not to be mad at Abe. “He had no choice, J. Some guy shot the whole thing on his phone. Before he said anything, Roxanne knew what happened. What did you expect him to do?”

Two hours. “I don't know.” Lie? Say nothing? Stand by your friend?

Samantha went to the bathroom to check her makeup. I asked Miriam, “What else does Roxanne know?”

We talked softly. “You mean about your mom's voice? Do I look like an idiot?” She swore she'd said nothing. “Don't worry. I didn't even tell Abe. I know what that would sound like.”

“Good.” I sighed with relief. She was a good friend. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She turned the hamsa so the stone was right-side up as Samantha emerged. I had to hold back surprise. Her eye makeup and lipstick were now way too dark, which was close to inexcusable. Even if she read
Glamour
only once a year, she'd know that too much mascara made your lashes look like spiders; if you insisted on heavy eyes, you should really go with gloss.

I asked, “So. You think she's going to help you with the farm?”

Samantha looked depressed, excited, and clownish at once. It was so hard to take her seriously. “She's our only hope. Last night they removed one huge branch. No one knows if they can
save it.” She shook her head. “I think the town's just waiting for us all to go on break so they can kill the tree and sell the land.”

I often believed in conspiracy theories too, but in this case it seemed far-fetched.

Miriam turned to Lo. “What would you do?” Samantha added, “We mean, from a legal standpoint. Has anyone been successful stopping something like this?”

Lo tapped her nails on the table. “I think a smart lawyer would probably have a good chance of blocking the sale. But if the tree is dead …”

“The tree can't be dead.” Samantha's cheeks flushed. “We can't afford a lawyer,” she said. “But even if we could, everyone I know thinks we should stick with the emotional story.”

Lo didn't agree. “Well, then you'd better be prepared. If an expert determines that the tree is unsafe, you are out of luck.”

Samantha turned to me. “That's why we were thinking … Janine … if we had to be a spokesman of sorts … someone famous … to raise awareness …”

Actually. We. Someone famous. A spokesman.

This was a thinly veiled hint—an emotional ambush. (People are always trying to get me to use the time I've been “given” for something important to them.)

Even though I had no intention of saying yes, I reminded myself that Samantha was Miriam's friend—and that meant no insults. “Are you asking me to talk to Roxanne for you?”

Samantha grabbed my hands and squeezed them tight in a forcefully earnest way that might have worked on stage, but at the table seemed like overkill. “Janine, we're not stupid. We know she wants to talk to you—not us. So …” She paused. “So … if you tell her that you care about the farm—if you tell
her it's important to you—then I know she will help us. And of course, we'd be forever grateful.”

I had to hand it to Samantha—she definitely did not lack guts. She had thought this through. I walked across the room and opened the freezer, mostly to buy time. “I wish I could, but …”

“What I'm envisioning is a huge protest—a big-time referendum. The key is doing something to get a lot of attention.” She spoke quickly. “That's why you're so important.” She smiled. I didn't. “Do you think Dan would like to come, too?”

I was pretty sure Dan thought the farm was okay—a harmless project—but including him in the plan did not make me want to do this more. It didn't make me like her more either.

I put three cubes in my glass, then poured the rest of my tea on top. “Miriam should have told you. I don't make any statements to the press. Really, I try my best to avoid all contact with the media. Even when the cause is important.”

“I did tell her.” Miriam crossed her hands over her chest. She was mad. Maybe hurt. She'd done a million things for me—put up with all my issues. “It's really important to me.” As if I wasn't aware. “If you could just do this … this one time … for me …”

I sipped my drink. Slowly. Miriam was my best friend. She hadn't told anyone about hearing my mom's voice. No one was going to get bent out of shape because I wanted to save a tree.

It would be one statement. One phone call.

I knew what she was thinking:
I would do that for you
.

Samantha handed me a piece of paper. “Not to be pushy or anything, but a person like you could make all the difference.
Here are all our issues. We can talk more at lunch. If you're nervous, I'm willing to coach you.”

Her handwriting was so tiny and perfect and even, it looked like she printed it off the computer.

“I'll think about it,” I said. “
After
my meeting with Ms. Browning.” That tree was not more important than my future—I was pretty sure Miriam could agree to that. And my future lay in the impeccably manicured hands of Sophia Louise Browning.

Before she decided to teach, Ms. Browning had worked for a bunch of designers, including Sonia Rykiel's daughter Nathalie, which was almost as cool as knowing the Madame of French couture herself. For the last five years, if she liked your work, you got into a design school. A
good
design school.

Miriam knew how much I wanted to go to Parsons. She also knew Ms. Browning didn't want me showing anyone anything until she gave me the go-ahead. She had high standards.

Samantha thought this was hilarious. “Are you serious?” she asked. “You're a lock for Parsons. Do you really think any school with an ounce of sense is going to reject the freaking
Soul Survivor
? You could buy your portfolio at Fashion Bug and they'd take you.”

As we walked to school, she acted like the worst day of my life had handed me a multitude of perks and possibilities—a million great advantages. “Even though what happened to you is really sad, you have to admit, you have it made. You are famous. There's no way any school wouldn't want you. You can do and say whatever you want. People will always listen.”

“And you think that's good?”

“I think it's great.” Samantha told me I was lucky. “You're an icon. People know you by name. Any time you want, you can make your mark on the world.” She talked with her hands. “If you see something you don't like—like losing the farm—you aren't stuck. You can say what you think. And people will listen. You know they will. You don't have to work to get attention.”

Well, that last part was true.

Two blocks later, we saw the caution tape blocking the entrance to the farm. I almost smiled (out of spite) until I saw the tree. One branch lay on the ground. Another one stuck out at an odd angle. Men in hard hats walked around, taking pictures and measurements and shaking their heads. Anyone could see they didn't look optimistic.

Personally, I couldn't decide if the tree looked proud or stubborn—if it was just lopsided and sturdy or lopsided and vulnerable. This was the problem with physical deformities. It was impossible not to stare at the open wound, the splintered white middle, just like it was hard not to look at the scars on my hands. The missing branch changed the entire balance of the tree. Just like my hands—which were ugly but still (mostly) worked. The tree might be fine. Just less attractive. Or, as Lo would say, more interesting. “Different.” That's how she described my hands when I felt sorry for myself.

Samantha rubbed her eyes—like we were supposed to believe she was near tears. “Now do you see why we need you?”

I just wasn't sure anyone would care. “I don't see how we're going to stop them. Especially if they cut down the tree.”

Samantha believed in the power of people and the ballot. Before they could sell the land, the planning board would have
to make an official statement. The board of supervisors would vote. And that would go on their public records. If they thought enough people were against the sale—if they thought people wouldn't vote for them in the next election—maybe they'd stop it.

She said, “People will listen to you. They'll pay attention.”

It sounded like a long shot.

But the more they talked, the more excited they got. The tree was not dead. They were not about to chop it down. And if there was any chance it could be saved, there was no reason to sell this land. I thought: I liked happy endings, too, but the truth was the college had made a good offer. The tree looked bad. Maybe it was tired. Maybe it was sick. Maybe it didn't mind dying.

Maybe the new farm would be beautiful.

When we arrived at school, I looked for the cameras, for adults dressed up to look like students. I checked the flagpole, the picnic table, the path by the parking lot. I looked inside the gazebo, where the most popular girls in school usually hung out. There were a lot of people in nice clothes practicing their made-for-TV poses and statements, but there was no sign of Roxanne or, for that matter, any other reporter or photographer. Samantha looked disappointed. She would never specifically blame me, but she acted like it was the end of the world. Miriam said, “The one time we want the press to show up, they ignore us.”