Starry Night (22 page)

I burst into giggles, putting my hand over my face. “Oh my god.” I tilted over onto him and buried my head in his neck and hair, which smelled like our kitchen.

“Wren,” he started, kind of laughing too. “What's making you laugh?” He looked at me. “These are freaking amazing, Wrenny—they are. Shhh. Look at this.” I held my breath as he slowly took his thumb and traced along the dusty charcoal line where I had drawn my arch. “Who can do that?” he said in awe. And then he took my hand in his and traced the same line of the arch with my thumb, slowly dragging it down the page. “It's perfect,” he whispered. “It looks just like your foot. It even has the personality of your foot.” He rubbed his socked foot on mine, pressing with the ball. I pressed back. We pressed our feet together hard until we both pulled back at the same time.

“These are beautiful, Wren,” he said, still looking. “You drew all of these when you were held in captivity?”

“Yeah, every afternoon, I would draw until the sun went down. Pathetically, I got obsessed with my foot. I haven't done my self-portrait yet and it's due on December 15!”

“You will. Shit, if you can draw a foot that looks like this, just think what you can do with that face.”

He pulled me onto his body and kissed me. My whole self lifted. Not up, but into him. It made me want to bite him, but I didn't.

“Hey, wanna know something?” he asked, kissing me. “Yeah,” I said, breathless. I really was breathless.

“You drew those in the afternoon, right?”

“Yeah.”

“There's this Van Morrison song [kiss] about [kiss] the afternoon.” He stopped kissing me and looked into my eyes. I practically wanted to cry out or bite my own lip. Everything was so quiet and slow, there was only the sound of our breath and the sound of his whispering voice. “It's a really good song.” He smiled. I could tell he was hearing it in his head. “I kind of wish it were the afternoon.” His other hand moved under me and shifted me down, until I was lying underneath him.

“Me too.” I didn't know why, but if he wanted it to be the afternoon, that sounded good to me.

“You got me reelin',” he half sang into my ear and kissed me on my neck and shoulders and slid his hand under my plain old white T-shirt until it touched the very edge of my bra.

We made out for as long as I could take it without freaking that my parents were right downstairs and it was Thanksgiving. I sat up, feeling a sense of impending urgency, like the intercom was about to ring.

“Here's the thing,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said, looking scuffed up with painfully adorable boy hair. I took a breath to try to organize my thoughts.

“What is happening?” I let the breath out.

“With us?” he said. That made me punch him on the arm.

“No—with, I don't know, Farah!” I paused and took in his boy hair and cow eyes again.

“Well, Farah, I guess, is in some adventure with that guy.” Of course Nolan would see it as an adventure.

“But
why
would she tell you about it—and not me, or Vati or Reagan?”

“Reagan?” he said.

“Yeah. Reagan.”

“I didn't think Reagan was so close to you guys.”

“Why, because she totally screwed Vati over until Oliver decided to have a come-to-Jesus moment because of, well, because of you?”

“Yeah, and, well, you never talk about her so much. I thought you and Vati were the duo.”

“Well, Reagan's tricky,” I said, and looked him in the eye.

“Is she nice?”

“Yes. On the outside, she's tough, but inside, she is, well, I think she's lonely a lot of the time. He mother is difficult and not really momlike. I think Reagan spends a lot of time in places with her mother that are too grown up, like they are forever in trendy restaurants.”

“That are too grown up?” he asked.

“Well, sort of. I eat with everyone in my family at seven and then have to do my homework. Reagan has tasting menus on school nights. Or she's just alone while her mother is out. So, anyway, I think she's kind of cold on the outside.”

“I spend a lot of time alone.”

“You do?” He looked like that four-year-old again. “Are you so bummed not to be with your dad?”

“Yeah, I am, but his wife's mother died. What are you going to do?” he said.

“I don't know. I guess come here?”

He smiled kind of sadly at me. “Do you get how lucky you are?”

I must have looked confused.

“Of course you don't get what Farah is doing, or Reagan even, because basically you are
good
and you don't understand screwed-up behavior. You have a charmed life, you know?”

“Charmed? I am so screwed up!”

“How?”

“I can't do anything right. I get the worst grades in my class, I couldn't read until I was nine, and usually I can't get work done unless Mom is standing there holding a club over my head.”

“Yeah, but she
does
stand over you. And you
do
get work done. Look at all those beautiful drawings.”

“But that's not real work,” I said, looking at the drawings of my foot.

“No, man, this”—he pointed to the drawing—“is the most real kind of work.” He nodded at me like,
Get it?
“And you have Oliver, and cute little Dinah.”

“Dinah is pretty cute.”

“She's frigging adorable. I watched her on TV before I knew you.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “And your dad,” he said. I thought about Dad. He always calls my drawings “work.” He believes art can be work just like Nolan does. I guess it's the only thing that feels easy to me, so “work” is not the word I would use—“play” maybe.

“But what about Farah? I am so freaked out by her. I know she feels like she's playing house with this guy, but the guy is a man, an old one.”

“Why don't you reach out to her? Text her. She might be freaked too.”

“Yeah. I will. I have to get my phone. I bet it's not even charged.” I started pacing around my room, pulling on a random sweater that was on the floor. “We have to go downstairs. I have to get dressed. You totally have to go to Oliver's room or something.” I started cleaning up the rest of the clothes on the floor but then gave up.

“Come here just for one more second.” I wasn't sure I wanted to get back in the bed but I did. He sat up, leaning on his elbow. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Are you my girlfriend?”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

 

37

Downstairs my mother had taken over the kitchen
and was standing in the middle of it looking at a yellow pad of paper. Her hair was out of the curlers and looping down, making her look too glamorous for eleven in the morning. She was still in her robe. No one took notice that Nolan and I had been upstairs. Holidays throw everyone off their game.

“Mom, may I please have my phone? It's Thanksgiving.”

“If you whip this cream.” She signaled to two pint-size boxes and a large whisk on the island. “I will get your phone, Wren. But let this be a lesson to you both.” She turned and pointed two fingers at us. “Don't mess with me.”

“We won't, Mrs. Noorlander, and again, I'm sorry,” said Nolan.

“No, no.” She held her hand up, blocking the apology. “It's water under the bridge, no need to apologize again.”

“Okay, cool. Can I help?”

“You can help Wren when her arm gets sore.
Wren
, you aren't showered? What is that ratty sweater?” she said as she made her way to wherever she'd hidden my phone. “People will be here at noon. You know Marian. She waits on a park bench until 11:58,” she called from the other room.

“Who is Marian?” Nolan asked.

“My father's secretary.” I poured the quart of heavy cream into the bowl.

“Want me to do that?” Nolan put his hand out with confidence.

“Oh, I can beat the daylights out of this cream, you just sit back and watch, my friend.” (I LOVED having a boyfriend!)

“Stiff peaks, Wren, don't make butter,” Dinah called over from the dining room table where she was drawing turkeys on place cards.

“What, you just whip this until it turns into Cool Whip, right?” Nolan asked.

“Yup,” I said, taking the whisk in my hand and the big copper bowl in my arm. “Then you add a little vanilla and sugar.”

“We only ever had it from the can.”

“Yeah, that is contraband here. But I like it. I wish we had stuff like that. I always wanted Lunchables.”

“I never had a Lunchables either, but they did look good on TV. I was a PB&J guy.”

“I never brought my lunch to school, and all nuts and seeds have been banned from the entire cafeteria since I was in kindergarten because so many girls had allergies. I don't think I've had a PB&J since Pre-K.” I was starting to get out of breath, but there was no way I was going to give him a turn.

“That is so tremendously weird.”

“I know. But have you ever had sun nut butter?” He just laughed at me.

Mom returned, holding my beloved sparkly pink phone.

“
Thank yoooooou!
Oh my gosh.” I had no free hands to take it. “Hello, phone. I have missed you.” Mom rolled her eyes.

“I'm putting it down here and you can reunite when you are finished with your task!” She put my precious phone on the butcher-block counter.

“Where did Oliver go?” Nolan asked.

“I sent him and Vati out with Mr. Noorlander to get tonic and more olive oil. How we ran out of olive oil I have no idea…” She drifted off to the dining room with her seating list.

Nolan picked up my phone, pressed the power button, and looked at the screen, which was a little weird, but maybe that is what boyfriends and girlfriends do. No secrets, everything shared and out in the open.

“You have, like, a thousand texts.”

“I do? Here take this and keep beating on the side of the bowl until it starts to thicken up.
Don't
overdo it, or we'll have five pounds of butter.”

“I remember that from fourth grade. I think we made butter in school as part of our Colonial study.”

My phone was fully charged. “She charged it, that was nice,” I said.

“This isn't easy.” He started whipping the cream then shifted the bowl in his arm and went at it with more resolve.

“Oh jeez, Nolan. There are so many texts from Farah.” I scrolled down. “From days and days ago. Listen.”

W—God why don't u have your phone??? He is calling me. Like every hour. He is sending a car to pick me up. R u getting these???

“When was that?”

“Um—it was, I think, like, two days after the party. Maybe it was that weekend. I don't know, she didn't say any of this in school. Listen to this one.”

W—At his loft. Have been here all afternoon.

“When was
that
?” He was still whipping.

“I think the same day, no! It was the next day. Sunday.” I read on.

W—He gave me a necklace he made. It's amazing. He is amazing.

“Oh my god.” I looked at Nolan. “This is so weird, Nolan. He is in his forties!”

“He's in his thirties, I think.”

“
Whatever!
She is fifteen!” I stared at the phone and saw a bunch of cute texts from Charlie.

Hang in there Wrenny. We miss you!!!

“I'm calling her. At least she was texting me,” I said to myself.

“I think this is done.” He held up the whisk and there indeed was a beautiful white peak of transformed heavy cream.

I pulled up Farah's contact. Her picture is her jumping in the air in front of a car. One time her mom told us about an old Toyota car ad where people jumped up in the air when they bought their car. They sang, “Oh oh oh what a feeling to driiiive … TOYOTA!” We thought it was so hysterical we spent the next few days taking pictures of each other jumping in front of random cars on the street and then laughing until we almost peed in our pants.

“Go show Dinah.” I pointed to the dining room with the phone. He looked terrified, which made me laugh.
I loved having a boyfriend!

My call went right to voice mail.

Hi this is Farah. I'm out of the country. Thanks.

“She must be on the plane!” I called to no one.

“Who?” Dinah shouted.

“Never mind!”
I yelled. I looked into the dining room and saw Dinah inspecting Nolan's work. She nodded her head approvingly. He held up the whisk for my mom, who also smiled. She once said to me having a husband who can cook is easier than having a husband who can't cook. Maybe the same was true for boyfriends. And my boyfriend could whip cream.

 

38

The first twenty minutes of people
arriving for Thanksgiving at our house is mayhem. Sometimes Thanksgiving with my family will be twenty-five people who might never have met, or haven't seen each other in a year since the last Thanksgiving. Both my parents are only children, so we don't have any cousins. Mom's parents both died and the Noorlander grandparents are in Holland. Our Thanksgiving guests are mostly people my parents know socially or from the museum or my mom's pottery studio who don't have anywhere else to go. New York City is full of people with no cousins, and nowhere to go.

Charlie and his parents walked in the door at ten after twelve. I didn't even realize how much I had missed him until I saw his sticking-up hair, apple cheeks, and his new purple bow tie.

“Oh, Charlie!” I flung my arms around him. Sometimes my father will say I am “a sight for sore eyes” and that's how I felt about seeing Charlie.

“Hi!” he said, like he was totally happy to see me too.