Circle Nine (9 page)

I’m watching them through the skylight. I’m standing on the chair, and I’ve pulled myself up to see and hear better. I have never seen them fight like this. I am thrilled; if they fight badly enough, he’ll be all mine again. I’ve hated sharing him. She’s clutching something in her hand. It looks like an old newspaper. It’s tattered with wear. She’s waving it at him, and now he’s approaching her and trying to touch her arm, but she brushes his off. He tries to grab the piece of paper she’s holding, but she grips it tight and it rips in half. Now they each have half of it. I wish I could know what it is, but I can’t hear much of anything at all. Just some muted shouting and the sounds of anger. And maybe, possibly . . . my name?

I move closer to the skylight, poking my head partially outside and straining to hear. They don’t notice me; they’re too involved in their own furious words. Now I am able to catch some of them here and there.

. . . is why,
says Amanda.

No,
Sam says back.
No, give it to me.
He snatches at the scrap she still holds in her hand. I see printed words, a picture, what looks like half a headline in big bold letters, but I can’t make out any of it.

It’s her, isn’t it?
Her voice is louder than before, accusing. She jabs at the newspaper with one finger. Then Sam whispers something, and they turn their backs to me and their words fade, become muffled. They move away a few steps, still facing the other direction. I hear nothing now, but I can still see their figures set in battle stance.

Good. I hope they are fighting over me. I hope she’s making him choose. Because I know deep down that if he has to, he will choose me over her. It is interesting watching Amanda become angrier. Even when she’s been moody in the past, it seems a little too dramatic, as though she’s putting on a show that doesn’t quite reflect what she’s really feeling. But this time, I see bits of her personality that I never quite noticed. Her face is set in a firm line, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks healthy in her anger. She looks as if she cares deeply about what she’s saying. For an instant I wonder if she truly loves Sam as I do. I had not thought it was possible before. I thought for her it was something different. The desire to win, to have. Now she is stomping away from him, and he is shaking his head, looking furious. I wonder about his reaction, because don’t these kinds of quarrels look different? Shouldn’t one person look penitent, or desperate to ease the other? But what do I know of it? I hear Amanda stomping closer, so I jump off the chair and hastily push it back to its spot by Sam’s desk.

I leap onto the bed and grab my sketch pad and pretend as though I’ve been sketching this whole time. They both storm in a few seconds later. Sam looks as though he’s swallowed something nasty, and Amanda looks a mixture of angry and frightened and confused. I wish I knew what happened. Amanda lies on her bed and turns her back to us. Sam comes over to me, and I am immediately glad. He is finally choosing me over her. Finally coming back to me, where he belongs. I sense that this is the end of Sam and Amanda, and my heart is leaping around inside in the utmost ecstasy. He sits at the foot of the bed, starting at my toes and kissing his way up the rest of me until his body is aligned with mine.

But something is wrong. I look at Amanda’s back and see that it is shaking with sobs. My delightful feeling is muted by her pain.

What happened?
I say to Sam.

Don’t worry,
mija, he whispers, but I can tell he’s shaken up.
It’s just Amanda being Amanda. It’ll be fine.
Then what is that note of fear in his voice?

Sammy,
I say,
please tell me if something is wrong.

Nothing’s wrong,
mija.

Now he looks as if he is thinking hard. He pauses, then whispers hesitantly into my ear, low so Amanda can’t hear:
I want you to come out with me tomorrow, Abby. I want you to meet Sid.

You want me to meet your friend?
I ask.

Yes, baby.

When, Sam? When do we go?
I am so delighted, I am practically jumping out of my skin. This must mean that Sam
has
made a decision. He has chosen me. He is bringing me closer to him, letting me be a part of his life.

Shhh, baby.
He motions his head toward Amanda. He must not want to hurt her feelings. Suddenly, I have no regard for Amanda at all. It’s clear why she’s crying; it’s because I have won. She is no longer close to Sam’s heart. My own heart is so warm and full of Sam; it is the happiest I’ve been in so long. I am so happy that his creased brow doesn’t bother me at all. His worry for Amanda, because that is what it must be, can’t affect me anymore.
Seven at night,
he says.
We’ll go at seven.
I fall asleep after several hours of tossing and turning, like a child. And for once, my sleep is dreamless.

We’re going to Sid’s so I can meet him for the first time, and also for Sam’s medicine. Sam asked me to dress up, to look pretty, and I am so excited for this and all it means for us that I am eager to please him. I want to look extra beautiful tonight. Being here with Sam is a cause to celebrate. Sam put on his nicer jeans, too — the ones without the holes, and the button-down shirt the man at the deli gave him as a present last month. He looks handsome, although a little nervous. I wonder if he’s worried about whether Sid will approve of me. I am wearing a pink-and-white striped sundress that Sam brought me this morning. I don’t know how he bought it; it still has the tags on it. It fits me perfectly, except in the chest. I think for my age I should have a bigger chest than I do, and it is my only big regret physically. It cinches my little waist nicely. It looks like a southern-belle dress because the skirt is so wide; if I tied a Hula-Hoop in it, I’d be a true Scarlett O’Hara. Amanda has been staring at Sam angrily all evening.

Beautiful,
Sam says to me as we are leaving, deliberately ignoring her. It has been a long time since he has given me a compliment, and I can’t help but be smug at the way he’s treating the she-witch. I can tell he is a little anxious. He’s clutching my hand tight, and it’s sweaty. I’ve never seen him like this. I know he is hoping for his medicine.

When we arrive at Sid’s, we sit on the sofa, sipping on the drinks Sid gives us in red plastic cups. We do this for a while, and the boys make uneasy small talk. Sid’s just a normal guy, not much older than Sam or me. He’s wearing jeans and sneakers and a white T-shirt. He doesn’t look like anyone special. His house is plain inside. There’s nothing here but a sofa and a coffee table and a few empty Chinese takeout containers and a guitar propped in one corner and a cat slinking around on the windowsill.

It’s strange that they are so awkward together, Sam and Sid, even though they’re friends. The drinks are strange, too. I thought they were glasses of mango juice at first, but now I notice some bitter taste behind the sweet. I sip until the world is hazy. I am not sure what world we are in right now. It seems like one or the other won’t stick. I lean into Sam’s shoulder and close my eyes, waiting for the world to settle. I allow my mind to drift, leaning farther into the soft leather couch cushions, as I wait for Sam and Sid to finish talking business. To finish talking about Sam’s health, so Sid and I can get to know each other. Sid does not seem like the doctors I remember from Before. I have vague memories that might have happened to me or might have been something I saw on TV, but I remember doctors in sterile offices with white jackets and stethoscopes, a kind woman who whisked me to such places the second I got a sore throat. But everything is different with Sam, and I have gotten accustomed to it. So even though it is different tonight, I am not worried. We have been out together before. But the world has not spun like this any other time.

Their words are underwater. I don’t hear anything anymore.

Sam is sitting next to me. His arm was around my shoulders, but now his hand is creeping up my thigh. It reaches higher, touching me tentatively, as if it is afraid. Then he is touching me where he touches only when we are both in our world, happy together and alone. It feels good then, but it is strange and foreign now. I feel another hand on me, this time on my chest. I struggle to open my eyes. I pry them open just slightly, and I see Sid next to me. I am being rude by falling asleep the first time we meet. But is it Sid’s hand on my chest, under my dress? His other on my stomach, rubbing low? I try to move, but it is as if my mind is not connected to my body anymore, as if I am not a part of any world at all and my motor functions have ceased to operate. It isn’t a bad feeling. I stop worrying and let go, float along the haze where I can feel nothing.

* * *

When I wake up later, I am curled up on the sofa as if nothing has happened. Sid is nowhere in sight. Sam is nudging me. He looks happy. There is a shine to his eyes that was missing before.

Did you get it, Sam?
I ask sleepily.

Yes, baby,
he says. Even though his eyes shine, something in them doesn’t look right. He carries me home in his arms. I am small, but he hasn’t been strong enough to carry me in a long time. I’m happy that he’s gotten stronger. He puts me to bed carefully, because I am still too sleepy and sluggish to do it myself. He is being especially tender tonight. He touches my hair and whispers, “I’m sorry,” over and over. I know somewhere deep down what he is sorry for, but just now I can’t place it. I only need to sleep. He touches my hair for a very long time, until I drift away again.

Amanda’s going out. She’s slipping on a pair of shoes. They’re lovely; their fabric is a rich and creamy leather. They’re woven with a pretty space for her polished toes to poke through.

Peep-toe,
she says.

Then something changes. Something wriggles in the back of my mind, and I rush after it and fight with it, wrestling. I halfway want it and halfway want to get rid of it. It’s a memory. I am anxious and sweaty and teeming. It breaks its way in.

I am in a large store.

The shoes are all around me, but not the ones I want to find. I look down for them, because it is too far to look up for faces. That’s how small I am. There are greeting cards on the shelves next to me. They’re at eye level. Women’s thighs are also at eye level, but not the thigh I am looking for. I can tell by the shoes.

I have gotten lost. Usually I wrap my arms around her cool, smooth knee, press my cheek right there against her, and don’t let go. But somehow I have let go, and I am lost, wandering around this store, looking for my mother. I can’t think what her shoes look like, but I will recognize them when I see them.

I walk up and down the aisles, my head pointed toward the floor. Black high heels with little gold buckles, flashy against this worn, patterned carpet. Brown loafers. Sneakers. None of them my mother. Then I see it: two feet in flat, tan, woven shoes, with a hole in the front for the toe to poke through. I lunge at this pair of shoes and grab the leg attached to them. I am safe. I am home.

Oh, hello,
a voice says. It is kind but unfamiliar. Only then do I look up. To my horror, I see a stranger’s face peering down at me. It is not her at all; the shoes deceived me! I burst into tears, and the world is black. I back away from this unfamiliar woman.