The Key to the Golden Firebird (10 page)

The next morning May gazed miserably into her locker, trying to make some sense of the mosaic of self-stick notes that covered the door. Why did she write incredibly obvious and nonspecific things like
study Tues
. or
bring book
?

“You're mad about something,” Linda said as May yanked down three identical notes that read
paper due
.

“Brooks's prom is tonight.”

“You're mad about Brooks's prom?” Linda asked.

“I'm not mad about her prom,” May said, shutting her locker door with a loud bang. “I'm mad because she gets everything she wants. I work so I can buy a laptop and save some cash for college. Brooks does nothing, and people like
leap out of the bushes
to throw money and stuff at her.”

“Bathroom,” Linda said. “With me. Come on.”

They turned into the bathroom by their homeroom door. Girls' had been built over a century before as a club for male students. The bathrooms were huge, intricately tiled places with historical plumbing and six inches of paint on the walls. May leaned against one of the old pedestal sinks and played with the cold water knob. Linda went over and sat on the high marble windowsill, pulling her long hair from behind her back and piling it on top of her head in a huge black coil. This was her thinking spot.

“So,” she said. “The prom.”

“I know what you're thinking,” May said. “That's not it.”

“I'm just asking. Could you like him?”

“Pete? He's
Pete
….”

“Let me get this straight,” Linda said. “Pete gives you driving lessons and he drives you around. He shows up whenever you need him and even when you don't. You want to know what this means?”

“Not really.”

“You're in denial.”

“I am not in denial.”

Linda smiled, as if she had just heard a little voice in her head that was telling her a private joke.

“I am not in denial,” May repeated. “Seriously. Pete is just a big-haired freak. He's like a brother to me. It's like asking you if you could date Frank.”

“But he's
not
your brother.”

“I said
like
a brother,” May replied.

“Right,” Linda said. “But Frank is
actually
my cousin, which makes it illegal as well as repulsive. You are not related to Pete in any way.”

“After a while, it's almost like I am. He's like my common-law brother.”

“You should work in an excuse factory,” Linda sighed. “It doesn't occur to you that he's only dating Nell because you pretty much told him to? And that it's possible for him to date Nell and like you at the same time?”

“Stop. Seriously.”

“You won't admit it.”

“There's nothing to admit,” May said. “He's teaching me to
drive because his mom made him, and he's going out with Nell because he feels like it. He was nice to Palmer because it was a serious thing. That's it. End of story.”

Linda considered this as she reached into her bag and pulled out a small white candy, which she unwrapped and popped into her mouth.

“My grandmother keeps giving me this ginger candy,” Linda said, her face contorting into an agonized spasm. “And I really hate it. It burns. But I can't stop eating it.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of parable?”

“No,” Linda said, sucking in air to cool her mouth. “Do you want it to be?”

May turned the ancient tap on one of the sinks a bit too roughly, and water came gushing out and covered the front of her skirt. She brushed it away. The one good thing about her uniform was that it was made of indestructible polyester, impervious to stain or spill.

“It was always the big joke,” May said, “when we were kids. Our parents always used to say that Pete and I were going to end up together. My dad said it all the time. He thought it was hilarious.”

Linda fell into the wide-eyed silence that always cropped up whenever May accidentally mentioned her dad. It was a guaranteed conversation breaker. May was obliged to continue speaking so that Linda could see that it was okay to keep talking about the subject.

“Pete is that person who wiped his nose on my ruler in fifth grade,” she went on. “I still can't eat bologna because of him….”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“The point is,” May said, “I just don't understand why Nell would date
that
guy.”

“Because Pete's not that guy anymore.”

“Quit it with the deepness.”

“I'm serious,” Linda said. “Things change.”

“They don't change that much.”

“Yes, they do,” Linda said. “Are you saying that you're the same now as you were when you were eight?”

“I'm not talking about when I was eight. I'm talking about last year.”

Linda made a thoughtful noise. May looked up at her.

“What? That's a Dr. Linda sound.”

“Why did you give Nell the number?” Linda asked.

May shrugged.

“I had to.”

“Had to? Oh, I get it. Nell's scary, impressive assistant manager's credentials got to you. You were blinded by her power.”

“It doesn't matter,” May said. “I don't even care.”

“Yes, you do. You care a lot. Will you please stop saying you don't? It's annoying.”

“I just think it's weird,” May said. “I can't figure it out. Pete was the most annoying person I knew, and just as he was becoming normal, he gets together with the person who took his title.”

“Okay, two things,” Linda said. “One, don't try to figure out why people pair up the way they do. Perfect example: You know Dash?”

“Frank's girlfriend?”

“Right,” Linda said. “Pep squad girl. Father owns a paper
company in New Jersey. Painfully dumb, but really good looking. She's got the hair and the scrawny body and the nose-job button nose—everything. And she's dating
Frank
? Four out of five experts would never have seen that one coming.”

“Well,” May said, “Frank's kind of smart….”

“He has five snakes and he just dyed his hair purple,” Linda said firmly. “He laminated his Mensa card. Dumb blond paper heiress—insane, snake-loving engineer. There's no logic behind it. Don't try to find any. And don't try to figure it out with Pete and Nell.”

“Okay,” May said, reaching up to pick at some flaking paint by the mirror. She looked at her reflection as she did so. She was scowling. She looked a lot like Palmer when she scowled—all chipmunk cheeks and round, maniac eyes. Very attractive.

“Second thing,” Linda continued. “Don't get involved in the details of other people's love lives, because the details are always creepy.”

“Trust me, I'm not getting involved.”

“I'm not saying you would want to. I'm saying it might happen, and you have to avoid it.”

“Huh?”

“Here's an example. Just last night Dash comes over to dinner. So I have to listen to her rambling on at the table for half an hour about how she's so excited to be eating actual Chinese home-cooked cuisine. We were having little crab cakes, which she obviously thought were dim sum fish balls or something. But I can let that go. She's from Jersey. It's a handicap.”

Linda reached into her bag and popped another candy into her mouth.

“Anyway,” Linda went on, waving her hand in front of her mouth again, “after dinner she tries to bond with me. She comes up to my room, sits on my bed, and tells me that she's been shopping. She pulls this pink silk gown out of her bag and asks me how I like it. This gown is about five inches long and covered in lace—it's disgusting. I don't want to see this. So I tell her it's nice, thinking she'll go away. But she just agrees with me and starts explaining to me how sexy it looks on her.”

“We should get her together with Nell,” May said. “They could start an I'm-comfortable-with-my-own-body club.”

“It gets worse. Then she starts asking me if I think Frank will like it, as if I study my cousin's turn-ons. She was going to try it on and show it to me, but someone called her from downstairs and she left.”

May wrinkled her nose in sympathy.

“But you see what I mean,” Linda said. “People will try to open that window sometimes and give you a little look. Don't let them. Unless, of course, you have some personal interest in the relationship.”

It was said innocently enough, but May understood what the pause meant.

“What am I going to do?” May asked, sagging against the sink.

“I don't know,” Linda said. “Can you talk to Pete about it?”

“No.” May shook her head. “It would be too weird.”

“Then try not to watch,” Linda said. “That's really all you can do.”

 

That night May could barely be coaxed out of her room to take the obligatory photos of Brooks stabbing Dave Vatiman in the heart with a small boutonniere pin.

“Palmer!” her mom was yelling up the stairs. “Come down here and look at Brooks.”

May sniggered as she laid the photos out on the coffee table.
Yeah, Palmer,
she said to herself,
come see the leaning tower of Brooks.
Brooks had mastered walking in her heels on the driveway, but the living room carpet was presenting a whole new challenge, and she was listing precariously to the left.

Palmer came halfway down the stairs and stared at Brooks, as directed.

“Doesn't your sister look great?” her mom prompted.

“Uh-huh.” Palmer was chewing on something very loudly.

“Instamatic,” Dave said, reaching for May's camera. “Cool. Can we take this? Do you have more film?”

“No,” May said, automatically retrieving the camera and tucking it under her arm. She didn't know Dave that well, but her every instinct told her that she didn't want him getting his hands on her precious Polaroid.

“Isn't Brooks's dress great?” Her mom was still needling Palmer. “Doesn't she look nice?”

“Yeah.”

May gathered up the photos and went into the kitchen. Brooks pigeon-toed behind her and cornered her by the refrigerator.

“We need a camera,” Brooks said pointedly.

“Buy a disposable. You have the cash.”

“I'm out.”

“Well,” May said, dropping the still-developing photos into Brooks's purse, “at least you have that nice tattoo.”

Brooks hadn't actually mentioned the tattoo to May—May had heard her describe it over the phone. This silenced Brooks, and she did her funny little walk back into the living room, this time with an angry little hustle.

May smiled in a rare moment of complete satisfaction.

 

The feeling lingered up until the time May arrived at Presto Espresso, but it fled at the first whiff of elevator jazz she heard as she walked in. It didn't help that it was a gorgeous, warm Friday night in early June. And this was where she would spend it. The only good thing about it was that for the first time, she would work alone. There had been no one available to share the shift. At least she could get something done.

May spent an hour attempting to read
Pride and Prejudice
for her English class, but her attention kept drifting. She kept looking out the window or just staring into space. As she tried to turn her focus back to her book one more time, she noticed Pete's car pulling into the far entrance of the lot. Without any time to wonder what Pete and Nell were doing there, she dropped into a casual pose and tried to look as engrossed in her book as possible.

Nell flounced—and that really was the only word for it—out of the car and into the store, striking the skinny heels of her shoes hard against the red tile so that her every step could be clearly heard by all.

“Like it?” Nell said, twirling for May.

“It's great.” May nodded. It
was
great. It was black and very
long and clingy, run throughout with a gold threading. Nell had piled her hair on top of her head and tied it into a shaggy lump with a leopard print scarf. It was the kind of thing May could never, ever pull off.

“It's Betsy Johnson,” Nell said proudly, coming closer so that May could feel the velvety material. “I got it online for forty bucks. Vintage.”

“Wow.”

“This,” she said, holding forth her hand and revealing a silver bracelet that was linked to a silver ring on her middle finger with a small chain, “is my new slave bracelet. Like?”

“It's beautiful.”

Pete came in quietly. He wore a slate gray suit, which May recognized from her father's funeral. It was probably the only one he had.

“You going to be okay by yourself here tonight?” Nell said, taking a sudden concern in the running of Presto Espresso. On any other day the roof could have caved in and she would hardly have noticed.

“I'll be fine,” May said. “Nothing's happening here.”

Pete saw Nell and May conferring.

“I'm going to”—he looked around—“go to the bathroom.”

He sped off toward the back. Nell nose-whistled.

“I already traced a star on the side of his neck,” she said.

“You what?”

“The freckles,” Nell explained. “They make a star pattern on his neck. On the right side. I already told him that he should get the outline tattooed.”

“Oh.”

The rather eerie image of one of Nell's slender fingers playing along the side of Pete's neck leapt into May's mind. She could see it quite clearly. Nell leaning across the front seat of Pete's gray tank, her short, ruby-colored nail stroking the coppery freckles. Linda was right. Nell was already opening the window and letting the creepiness come pouring in. She really didn't want to know these things.

While May was musing, Nell jammed her hand down the front of her dress and busily adjusted her bustier.