The Belief in Angels (35 page)

“Do you think they picked me because of Moses or something?”

Something about Leigh’s lack of immediate reassurance tells me I may be right, but she says, “No, I think they picked Leslie Simon because they felt badly for her because of the acne. I think they picked Gracia Cassivetes because she’s shy. This will be a good thing for both of them, socially. I think they picked you because you performed the dance moves well. You did a good job.”

Then Leigh says, “You were the best, you know that? You caught all your throws and you were the best dancer that tried out.”

Although I don’t remember, I’m sure I haven’t done particularly well. I feel relieved it’s over, but I’m sure my spins weren’t as fast or practiced as the other girls’.

“You were absolutely perfect,” Leigh insists.

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” I say.

She beams at me and even though I know I wasn’t really perfect, I smile back.

It’s clear that Withensea High will be tougher than middle school was. I’ll have to try harder in class and find a way to do more homework in my room rather than on the school bus. I’ve been placed in advanced classes, which will mean having to study for tests instead of doing quick memorizations of material before class.

Between this summer at summer camp, becoming a majorette, and settling into high school, this is the first time in my life I’ve felt like a normal kid. David’s presence, as a senior, has helped pave the way for me academically, too. He’s a great student and his teachers adore him. Sometimes I feel like I make better grades because the teachers we share like him so much.

David’s on the football, basketball, and tennis teams, so he knows lots of kids at school and has also always been popular. It’s like he has a separate personality with us from the one he has at school. But I suppose I do too. Now, though, we’ve become friends. The majorettes perform at all the football games he plays in and at school rallies. We often show up at the same school parties. He ushers me out when it gets rowdy. I think he’s enjoying being the “big brother.” The only thing we still don’t talk about much is Moses. I’ve tried bringing it up. He just changes the subject or says, “Drugs kill kids!” or “Call Freddy.”

High school is making me wish I had a big sister, however, to help me navigate the social scene. I’ve been too worried about Wendy’s potential for arrest to bother
about things like popularity and pity votes in the past, but now I see these are the things girls my age are supposed to worry about. I become afraid if I don’t start I might end up isolated and alone.

Wendy continues to divide her time between school classes and partying. The partying intensifies when Jack returns from Big Sur.

Mostly, I fear losing Leigh’s friendship. She is my only anchor.

Jules, 16 years | September 19th, 1977

HIGH

I RUN-WALK to the bus stop because I woke up late as usual and I’ll miss my bus unless I hoof it up the hill. It doesn’t matter how early I’m up or how much I try to prepare in the morning, I often run late. It’s my junior year in high school and time is still a puzzle for me. It goes by excruciatingly slow sometimes and other times slides by as though I’m in a time warp. I don’t experience the amnesiac episodes I did years ago anymore, but I still have trouble keeping track of time. My internal clock has a dead battery.

I awoke this morning after having the nightmare. Today is the anniversary of Moses’s death.

Because one of Wendy’s Psychology Today articles suggested it, I decided to try behavior modification for my nightmares. Behavior modification appeals to me because it advocates personal responsibility. When I wake up from a nightmare, instead of lying in the dark with dread, I switch on the light and start reading. I keep encyclopedia volumes by my bed and use them to sedate me so I can fall back asleep again, which I usually do.

Last night, however, I didn’t fall back asleep for a long time. Not even reading my encyclopedia article. I have no idea what I read. I woke up with the light on, the book on my chest, and an indentation on my chin where the book corner had dug in.

My first thought was about David. I wanted to call him. He’s now in his second year of college at the School of Business at University of Massachusetts at
Amherst, which everybody calls Zoo Mass. This was my grandfather’s request, but David enjoys his classes.

My clock read 7:50 when I finally rolled out of bed. I figured he was still sleeping. I didn’t call.

I wondered if the date registers with him. We never discuss it. I wanted to ask him this or call to tell him I love and miss him. I decided to call later and raced to dress and catch the bus.

On my way to the bus stop, I pass the raised ranch homes built along the border of the land Howard sold to the developers. Timothy lives here. I think about the first day I heard about him, the day I left my schoolbooks up at the elementary school and he returned them to my porch.

Leigh was in love with Timothy for a while, and she made sure we met him. “Timothy is a boy with secrets,” she used to say repeatedly and cryptically.

After a while, she lost her romantic interest in Timothy and found another crush, but they stayed friends. Now we all hang out nearly every day. Leigh and Timothy are both science nerds and while I don’t always understand the stuff they talk about, it’s always interesting.

Timothy calls to me as I run by his house.

“Hey, Jules, stop. The bus already went by. Walk with me.”

I stop and turn around. I’m surprised to see him because he normally walks to school and leaves a half-hour earlier. I never walk because it means giving up a half-hour of sleep, and I don’t like the trade.

“Did it just go by?”

“It came five minutes early. I’m late because Crikey ran out when I left before.”

Crikey is Timothy’s German Shepherd.

Timothy almost always smiles a great, big, lopsided smile that turns the corner of the left side of his mouth up and crinkles his left eye shut. He doesn’t seem bothered by much. He’s the most peaceful person I’ve met and I’m a bit in awe of him. I know not everything in his world is good. His mother died when he was seven. He and his older brother are taken care of by his father, a Harvard professor who teaches neuroscience, and his grandmother. He rarely talks about his mother and then usually only within the context of a family story.

We walk along Withensea Avenue. The avenue is lined with oak and maple trees. Beyond them sits the Boston ferry landing pier with its tiny parking lot, a high seawall, and a few small, tied-up harbor boats.

I’m thinking what a perfect fall day it is. The crisp air smells like wet grass and turned soil. The sun shines and it makes the maple leaves glimmer in their colors, deep rich velvet reds, vibrant beach ball oranges, and squash blossom yellows.
I pull a leaf off and study it while Timothy and I chat and walk.

“Look at this leaf. There are cities in this leaf.”

“What?” Timothy laughs. He stops and examines the leaf closely to see what I’m talking about. I love this about him. He jumps into my world with me. “Yup … looks like Chicago.”

Ms. Wheaton, who now teaches at the high school, pulls up to us in her car. It’s a tomato red Eldorado. She rolls down her window.

“Hey you two, get in. Jules, I’ve got something to tell you.” We jump in, Timothy in back, me in front.

“What is it?” I ask.

She’s smiling as wide as piano keys, and I’m smiling now even though I have no idea why.

“You got accepted into the Boston Museum of Fine Arts student exhibition.” “What? H-how?” I stammer.

“Well, remember I told you last spring they had a student exhibition every winter? I asked you if you would be interested and you said you would, so I submitted for you. I’m your sponsor. They sent me the letter yesterday. Here.” She hands me a thick envelope.

I open the envelope, which holds a packet of letters. “What? You did? What did you submit?”

“I sent the one of the boy with the eyes.”

I can’t remember the project she’s talking about, but I don’t care. I read my acceptance letter, which includes information about the art jury and the competition at the exhibition.

“It’s unfair they judge you and you compete based on your artwork. I mean, it’s so subjective,” I say. Ms. Wheaton and Timothy laugh.

Timothy says, “Spoken like a true artist. Hey, congratulations.”

“Don’t forget to sign the contract and mail it back. It gives them permission to display the artwork.”

Ms. Wheaton takes the Eldorado out of park with a grinding noise and continues driving toward the high school as I stare at the contract, the next set of papers in the envelope. I know I should be excited but I’m numb. I’ve never won anything before. Until this moment I believed Ms. Wheaton encouraged me to give me an emotional boost because she felt sorry for me. I don’t really know if my work is any good or not.

This, a professional notice, is what I’ve yearned for. I love drawing and painting and sculpture and doing all kinds of art, and even though I dream about a career in art I’ve never thought I might actually achieve that dream.

“I won’t forget,” I say as Timothy and I step out of the Eldorado.

Sitting in homeroom about fifteen minutes later, I finally feel excited. I feel like I won a million dollars.

This is the part where I get accepted by an art show.

The principal comes on over the loudspeaker with the morning announcements.

I’m not paying attention until I hear my name and the announcement that I’ve won a spot at the museum exhibition. The principal finishes this announcement by saying how proud we should all be for this achievement. I’m completely embarrassed. I can’t believe Ms. Wheaton would share this—but maybe she thought it was the right,
teacherly
thing to do. I’m sitting in the front seat of my row. When the principal finishes I nod my head and say, “I paid him to say that.” Luckily, a bunch of kids laugh and the bell rings. I slink out after homeroom and on my way to class I pop my head into the art room, where Ms. Wheaton sits.

“I might have to kill you,” I say, leaning in.

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re a nice person. You won’t kill me. You should feel proud of yourself. You’re talented.”

My insides feel tingly. Everybody is smiling at me in the halls, though it isn’t until I go into the girl’s restroom, and see my reflection in the mirror over the long sink that I realize I’m smiling too. When I go into the bathroom stall someone whispers, “That’s the girl who won the art contest.”

I can’t remember feeling this happy—ever.

It’s September 19th and a pretty good day after all.

This isn’t the first time major events have fallen on the same day in my life. My head injury on the playground and Wendy’s motorcycle accident happened on the same day. Howard’s father died on my birthday two years ago.

I figure the older you are the more this stuff happens. Soon your life is filled with experiences that are bound to fall on days with other major life events.

This is also the day where the gossip about me, behind bathroom stalls, can become about
the girl who won the art contest
rather than
the girl whose brother drowned.

The bad part of the year comes in December when our cat, Felix, gets run over by a car in our driveway. Jack’s friend, some druggie, was pulling into our driveway too fast. Felix loved to lie in the middle of the asphalt, where the snow would melt away first, in the sun. We were all used to pulling in slow to warn her. She didn’t have a chance to run. She died right away. When David came back from college for the holidays he hung a sign on the refrigerator that says DRUGS KILL CATS.
No one’s taken it down so I guess Wendy and Jack agree.

I win first place in my age group at the exhibition in January. It’s astounding to me still that I got chosen at all. Winning an art award feels unreal and overwhelming. Dessert after dessert!

My grandfather, Grandmother Ruth, and her daughter Bethyl arrive early and congratulate me when they see the ribbon. Wendy and Jack show up and behave themselves for once. Leigh and Timothy stand by me all evening. It’s definitely the best moment in my life so far.