The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (25 page)

A hush fell over the room as our assistant principal, Mr. Halloway, and Nick's favorite, Mrs. Plaster, took the stage. A few twitters and elbow jabs went around the room. Nick had a name for Mr. Halloway, too. It was Hal, short for halitosis. Which was kind of mean, but his dragon breath was enough to make you gag. Hal was an ex–football star, looked big and beefy in his suit and tie, and walked like he knew he was a stud. It turned out that our two teachers had minored in Human Sexuality in college. For real. Who does that?

They began with a brief introduction of the class, saying that we had already been taught the mechanics of our bodies in previous health classes, so they would be focusing on relationships.

“We want to hear directly from you. What concerns you, what are you struggling with?” Mrs. Plaster said. “You are growing up a rapidly changing time with technology, social media, like we've never seen before. You spend much of your time in an online world, and we're going to talk about how that is altering relationships for better and for worse.”

“I want everyone to pull out a piece of paper and write down at least one question,” Hal instructed. “Anything that's on your mind. Friendships, dating, sexuality. Don't put your name on it. We'll collect them and try to answer as many as we can.”

I glanced at Kaitlyn, and she crossed her eyes. Nick scribbled away. I had no idea what to write.
What do you do when you get up the nerve to ask a guy to Sadie Hawkins, and he turns you down?
Yeah right.

I twirled my ponytail. In Spanish, the word for “questions” is “preguntas.” I wrote, “No preguntas,” and folded up my paper, smiling to myself.

Hal and Mrs. Plaster circled the room, collecting all the folded up notes. Then they began, which I thought was pretty brave of them. I assumed they'd take a few minutes to review them first. I mean who knows what kind of perv questions some kids were going to write down.

Hal read the first question. “What do you do if someone you know has bad breath?”

Half of the room burst out laughing. Kaitlyn and I looked at Nick, but he was sitting with a perfectly straight face, as if he was eagerly anticipating the answer.

“Now, now, this is a good question. It's a touchy subject. You've got to find a way to tell the person without hurting their feelings, but sometimes honesty is the best policy. Do you have any thoughts, Mrs. Cooper?”

Mrs. Plaster looked at Hal with a sly smile, and said, “You could offer them a breath mint.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a roll of mints, and held it out to him.

Laughter exploded around the room. Nick was physically shaking in his seat, doubled over.

Hal laughed with us, clueless. I felt a little bad for the guy.

Mrs. Plaster read the next question. “What do you do when you're friends with a girl but you like her more than that?”

Whispers spread around the room. The basketball guys craned in their seats, trying to guess who had written the question. I couldn't see Tom's face.

Kaitlyn stretched her legs out in front of her, tapping her clunky boots together. Nick looked bored, doodling on his notebook.

Mrs. Plaster continued, “It sounds like this is a popular question. I'm sure many of you will find yourself in this situation at one time or another, both boys and girls. And in fact, some of the best, loving relationships start off as friendships.”

I sneaked a look at Kaitlyn. Her face was blank.

“So what do you guys think you should do? You like someone more than a friend, how do you let them know?” Hal threw the question out to the crowd.

“Have a friend tell her for you,” a boy shouted.

“Yeah, saves you the embarrassment if they don't like you back.”

“Text her.”

“Ask him to Sadie Hawkins!” A group of cheerleaders cheered.

I couldn't help it, my cheeks flamed. I tugged my hair out of its ponytail and let it fall in front of my face. I hung my head and doodled in my notebook like Nick. I wanted to see what Tom was doing, but no way was I looking anywhere near his direction. I drew a tiny snowcapped mountain peak. By the time the bell finally rang, I had an entire mountain range stretching across the top of my page.

I stopped at my locker before lunch and out fell another note. Seriously, I was so done with this place. I shoved the note into my back pocket unopened.

Kaitlyn and I were the first to arrive at our lunch table. The sun shone through the windows and glistened off a row of icicles dripping off the roof.

“I've been thinking,” Kaitlyn said.

“Uh-oh.”

“Come on. Listen. This is serious stuff. You want to go back to California, right?”

“It's not going to work. Don't worry about it, Kaitlyn.”

Ashley the Virgin Goth Girl and Brett the pierced face guy actually smiled at me as they came to the table. I nodded hey, then leaned closer to hear Kaitlyn over the increasing clamor.

“No, listen,” she said. “I was thinking about what you should do. Even though your parents sent you here, they wouldn't want you to lose touch with the rest of your life that was important to you. Wouldn't they want you to go back to California at least for a visit?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I'm saying that you should go back, but you don't have to do it on your own. We could plan it as a trip, together. I mean, if you wanted me to come too.”

I looked at her, digesting this new idea. I smiled. “I'd love for you to go with me.”

Kaitlyn clapped her hands. “Yay! We could go for spring break.”

“What about spring break?” Nick plunked down his lunch tray. “You in bikinis, running wild?”

“Shut up.
We
are going to California,” Kaitlyn said.

“Oh man, I want to go to California.”

“
You
are not invited.”

“How come? I'd behave. Please.”

Kaitlyn rolled her eyes. “We haven't even made any plans yet. So hold your horses. First things first. We need to find Cara a date for Sadie Hawkins.”

“Did you hear who asked Tom?” Nick asked.

“I don't even want to know,” I said.

“Ann-Marie Fidesco.”

“No!” Kaitlyn scrunched up her nose.

Big surprise
. “Forget it. I don't even like him anymore.”

“Maybe he's such a nice guy, he just didn't know how to say no to her,” Kaitlyn said.

“He's Mr. Basketball Star. She's Miss Wannabe Popular Cheerleader Skank. I don't see anything wrong with this picture,” Nick said.

“If she were, like, a nice cheerleader, a sweet person, then it could be understandable,” Kaitlyn said. “Or if she was irresistibly gorgeous, or smart, or anything, just not Ann-Marie Fidesco.”

“Maybe he just wants to get laid.” Nick said.

Kaitlyn crossed her arms and glared at him. I had already been crossing my arms and glaring for most of the conversation.

“This is Cara's crush we're talking about. We are not going to give up on him that easily.”

“Says who?” I said.

“Maybe he'll need rescuing at the dance. There's no way he can actually like her. So, all the more important for you to be there.”

“I still think you should ask my brother,” Nick said.

“No, she should ask
my
brother!” Kaitlyn said.

“I'm not going,” I said, crossing my arms even tighter.

One of the dripping icicles broke from the roof and shattered on the sidewalk below. The shards sparkled like cut glass.

“Just as friends, you know, no pressure, just fun.” Kaitlyn reached over and touched my arm with her missing-fingers hand. “And this is the other thing I was thinking. Your parents sent you here, to go to school because they wanted you to have these experiences, right? And your uncle, he would want you to go to the dance and have fun too. Don't you think?”

She gently squeezed my wrist. “Maybe it's time to move forward. For both of us.”

And that's how I ended up going to Sadie Hawkins with a totally hot college guy.

The high school powers that be decided this year's Sadie Hawkins dance was not going to be a casual affair. Last year's theme was a country barnyard dance, and there was more activity in the haystacks than on the dance floor. So I've heard. This year's dance was supposed to be classy, to encourage students to be on their best behavior. Not quite semiformal like homecoming, but classy chic. Whatever that means.

I told my grandparents the Thursday before the dance, half hoping it was too late to get a dress. Grandma didn't even twist her mouth in irritation, but told me to follow her down into the basement. She went over to the area where I had seen the goose's little clothes hanging up and rifled through a few garments draped in cellophane bags. She took them down one hanger at a time and handed them to me. We carried them upstairs and draped them over the couch. Dresses. Dresses my mom had worn to dances during high school and college. Each one beautiful in a simple, nonfussy way. Just like my mom. I touched the silky fabrics: black, turquoise, red, lilac.

Grandma sniffled, and I glanced over at her. Her eyes were shiny. Grandpa came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“I remember her wearing these dresses just like it was yesterday,” Grandma said, her voice wavering. “You're welcome to wear them, she would want you too. I don't guess they're in style now though. We can buy you something new.”

Seeing Grandma on the verge of tears, I swallowed hard. I hadn't thought about Grandma feeling hurt before, just angry. Then I remembered what Grandpa had said about everyone grieving in their own way.

The lilac dress looked the most outdated, with a ruffle around the scooped neckline. But the others were so elegant and simple, they looked timeless. Taylor Swift could have worn them to the Grammys.

“I'll try them on,” I said.

I gathered up the dresses and took them to my room. I sat on my bed and stared at them for a long time before I took them off the hangers. I was almost the same size as my mom. The sleeves were a little too tight on the black dress; my biceps were strong from climbing. Mom wasn't a climber back then. Even though I knew I wouldn't wear the lilac dress, I tried it on. Just to see what she had looked like. I stood in front of the full-length mirror that hung from the back of the bedroom door and looked at the nineties version of my mother.

Was she the woman I wanted to be?

I took off the lilac dress and replaced it on the hanger. Red or turquoise? Mom must have looked stunning in the turquoise one, with her electric-blue eyes. But I had my dad's chocolaty brown eyes. I stepped into the red dress, pulled it up over my hips and slipped the spaghetti straps over my shoulders. Once again, I faced my mother in the mirror. The dress was perfect.

I held out my arms and turned a slow circle, following my reflection. My sunshine highlights had faded, but somehow in these past few months, my muscular pecs had morphed into actual boobs. I was no Becky, but I had curves. I turned and looked over my shoulder. My arms looked strong, my triceps cut, my back sleek and ripply when I flexed. I was a climber girl, a climber's daughter.
But I am not you, Mom
.

I opened the door and strutted down the dim hallway. The living room was ablaze with the setting sun through the front window.

Grandma sucked in her breath when I swept into the coppery glow. I smiled and twirled a pirouette, piano notes of smooth jazz drifting in from Grandma's kitchen radio.

“Woo-wee!” Grandpa whistled. “You look beautiful.”

“Just like Lori.” Grandma looked at Grandpa, nodding. “Doesn't she?” She touched the flowing skirt of my dress, the red satin shimmering in her fingers.

Grandpa tilted his head, studying me. Then he placed his hands on Grandma's shoulders and pecked her cheek. “You know who Cara looks even more like?”

Grandma turned her gaze to Grandpa.

“You,” he said.

Grandma shook her head, but smiled, her cheeks flushing.

Me
?
Look like Grandma?
I raised my eyebrows, but Grandma and Grandpa locked eyes and drifted back in time.

The song on the radio shifted to the sultry sound of saxophone. Grandpa grasped Grandma's hand and slowly spun her around, then they waltzed like I imagined they did on their wedding day. He pressed his cheek to hers, and he winked at me. So fast, I almost missed it. They glided across the living room carpet, embraced by the yellow glow of the lamps, the evening sky deepening to violet.

Kaitlyn, Nick, and Josh picked me up for the dance. Josh had driven down from Michigan State that afternoon. He was tallish and thin, probably Tom's height, but without the crooked grin and wavy hair. Josh's red hair was cut short and spiky, and a sprinkling of freckles dotted his nose. I saw a flash of Kaitlyn-Katie without her charcoal smudged makeup. Grandpa said he looked like quite the gentleman in his dark-gray suit with a red tie. (Kaitlyn had told him to match me.)

Even with her heavy makeup, Kaitlyn looked beautiful. She wore a black halter dress, and the contrast with her pale, milky skin was stunning. She kept her hand hidden in a loosely draped black cashmere wrap.

No suit for Nick. He wore black jeans and boots, and a T-shirt printed to look like a tuxedo. He kept his arm around Kaitlyn as we walked into the school. There was a look on his face, I had seen it before, but now I knew for sure what it meant. That question from our health seminar popped into my head.
What do you do when you're friends with a girl but you like her more than that?

The cafeteria had been transformed into a dim and pulsing nightclub. The lunch tables had been cleared away, silver streamers floated from the ceiling, and a disco ball sent sparks spinning around the room. The DJ yelled, “Whoa-oh oh!” over the thumping music. Ann-Marie Fidesco squealed as she flashed past us, boobs bobbing in her strapless dress. She pulled Tom behind her.