The Weight of Zero (7 page)

It's Friday afternoon and Mom is late again. It's already 2:55 and she's not picking up her phone. How hard is it to leave at 2:15 each day? It's not like she's doing brain surgery. Cath, she said yesterday, it's not that easy. There's always something going on, a closing, a client meeting, a deposition. I'm the only secretary in the office.

Tonight's football game is away, so the front of the school emptied out quickly. All decked out in a shirt and tie today, Louis Farricelli was too distracted by groupie drool to harass me much. A lone school bus enters the driveway and stops at the curb in front of the school, completely blocking my view. A hand shoots out a window and waves in my direction, but it's clearly not for me. I ignore it and walk to the rear of the bus so I can watch for Mom on the curb.

“Catherine!” a male voice calls.

I stiffen defensively until I see that it's Michael, with a shorter kid in tow.

“Hey!” He walks up, smiling shyly. He turns to the kid beside him. “This is my friend, Tyler.”

“Hi,” Tyler says, quickly looking at me but then shifting his gaze to just over my shoulder.

A lot of kids who know my history act like this. No real contact, just vague, distanced comments. They avoid meeting my eyes. As if what I have can be passed to them by a mere verbal exchange. They're the nice ones.

But I'm not getting that sense from Tyler. Because Tyler is tagged. Like me. There's not one centimeter of clear skin on his face. It's the worst case of acne I've ever seen. His face has been attacked,
invaded,
by fat, angry red welts topped with ripe whiteheads that stretch from chin to forehead. The onslaught continues past the border of his blond hair and onto his scalp. The only peaceful zones are the white circles of skin surrounding his blue eyes.

“Hi,” I say.

I get Michael now. He's a fixer—one of those people who likes to collect the wounded and heal them. I feel myself unclench even more. I think Michael's safe and not looking to publicly embarrass me. At this point, I'll take being someone's project versus their target. Something like relief flows through me.

Michael smiles full-on at me and looks surprisingly cute. I return him to the number one candidate spot in the L.V. sweepstakes. “Ty's the one I sawed in half at the talent show,” he says. “Remember?”

“Oh yeah!” I smile back. It's his eyes. The way Michael looks at me. Could that be bona fide interest instead of just Good Samaritan–ness? “Your act was great,” I add.

“You're a good dancer,” Tyler says to my right ear.

“Thanks,” I say. And then, “But I don't dance anymore.”

“That's too bad,” Tyler says, now studying his sneakers.

“Headed to work?” Michael asks me.

“Um.” Brain freeze. Shit. I told him I had an after-school job. “Yeah. I help out at the law firm my mother works at,” I lie again. “Just filing and copying stuff. Nothing major. I'm just waiting for her.”

“Cool,” Michael says. “So, uh…” His neck sprouts red patches near the collar of his T-shirt that blossom upward along his neck. “Since you're busy after school during the week, do you want to meet tomorrow at Starbucks? Or the Cranbury library? Not too long. Just try to bang out that list of sources? It's due on Monday.”

“Umm…” The Accord rounds the wide curve to the front doors of the school, barreling toward us. I'm suddenly nervous to meet Michael. I haven't done anything with a kid my own age in almost two years. Since that freshman-year talent show.

Michael studies me. “My mom could give you a ride,” he says. “I have my license, but I still can only drive my family.”

In Connecticut, you can get your license at sixteen and a half, but you can't drive your friends around until you've had it for at full year. Which is a nonissue for me, given the lack of both a license and friends.

“No,” I say quickly. “That's okay. My mom doesn't work until later in the afternoon. She can take me.”

“Okay, how's one-thirty?”

I swallow. “Sure. Let's meet at the library.” This is just in case Mom can't drive. The library is close enough for me to walk to.

“It's a plan.” He smiles broadly. He doesn't say anything else; he just looks down at me like we've accomplished something great. Tyler elbows him, jolting him out of his triumph. “Okay, Cath, see you tomorrow,” Michael says. “Let's meet on the front steps?”

“Yeah. See you then. Nice to meet you, Tyler.”

In the car, Mom gives a restrained hi, but happiness oozes out of her. Her little Catherine was talking to not one, ladies and gentlemen, but two, count 'em,
two
new friends! Mom sits erect in the driver's seat, her fingers tapping in time to a Bonnie Raitt song. It's always Bonnie Raitt. The eject button broke and that CD has been held hostage for the past two years.

Through her barely suppressed smile, Mom babbles excuses for picking me up at 2:55. “Cath, I'm sorry. It was a closing from hell. They're still waiting for the bank to wire the funds. They weren't going to let me leave. Are you sure you don't want to take the van?” she asks, before quickly retracting that question. “No, no, that's okay.” She shakes her head. “I'm giving them an extra unpaid hour for this arrangement,” she says, speeding past the strip mall. “And Aunt Darlene will pick you up tonight. I'm headed straight to Dominic's after work.”

I despise arriving late to anything and I know Amy will probably say something snarky, but the anger that I would normally feel is surprisingly absent. Maybe it's because I have plans for tomorrow. With Michael. The number one (and only) candidate for L.V. Could he be the one I connect with? The boy who holds me so tight it's impossible to get any closer?

This thought soothes me. As we race into the parking lot, I realize I'm not dreading St. Anne's anymore. It's not quite as hellish as I expected. On Wednesday, Sandy continued the bullying discussion. Lil' Tommy advised us that the school nurse is letting him use one of the bathrooms in her office to wash his hands. John, still in the Red Sox gear, wanted to talk about his wrestling teammates and how they were all over him last year to cut weight for matches. His supportive buddies had pushed puking, laxatives, extended sauna visits and spitting (I had never heard of that one—just constant spitting into a Gatorade bottle), all of which had kick-started his bulimia. Kristal managed to arrive on time and chose to sit next to me on Wednesday and Thursday, even though spots on the other sofas were still open.

Kristal is recovering from an eating disorder. I learned this when she told John her strategy for handling her “touch of bulimia.” Kristal said, “Every time I was stressing, about school or my weight or something with my friends, and I wanted to just slam everything down my throat, I would just say fuck it. Fuck it. Two little words. Simple yet effective. I'm telling you, you've got to try it.”

Yesterday, Garrett ran the discussion on drugs. Garrett volunteered that he's on probation for selling his Adderall to finance a pot habit. He even sold to a few of John's wrestling teammates for weight loss. I still haven't said a word, but Sandy hasn't pushed me with any dumb comments like “Why don't we hear what Catherine has to say?”

The Immaculate Conception girls and Kristal are absent today. Alexis and Amy are off at some retreat, and Kristal is headed to Boston for freshman parents' weekend at her brother's college. So Sandy returns to bullying. “Today I'd like for us to discuss how we handle bullies. John and Tom have told us their experiences, and Tom has found a way to avoid confrontations, but what can John try? Any thoughts on how he can handle the upcoming wrestling season?”

“Yeah, take up swimming!” Tommy shouts.

I stay quiet. I have no advice on this practice of cutting weight. When I was dancing I never had to worry about weight like Riley and some other girls did. But at break time, while Garrett and Lil' Tommy chow down on chocolate-covered raisins, John ventures up to my sofa and sits down next to me. He asks me what I think of the IOP so far. And it's weird because I feel surprisingly okay talking to him. It's like the public knowledge inside these four walls that we are all damaged in some way liberates me. And while I don't feel I can speak completely unguarded to John, for at least three hours a day, five days a week, I do feel a lot of the layer of shame slipping away.

Aunt Darlene is waiting for me after the session, her red Mini Cooper illegally parked in a handicap space directly in front of the door. Aunt Darlene isn't my real aunt; she's my mom's best friend since high school. She never married. Her parents bought a Dunkin' Donuts back when no one had ever heard of the chain around here, and now Aunt D owns and manages a small empire of them in Cranbury and the surrounding towns.

Inside the car, we run the same affectionate Friday-night dialogue, our lines perfected over the previous forty consecutive Friday nights that Aunt D has babysat me while Mom works at Dominic's. I slide into the front passenger seat and Aunt D bear-hugs me ferociously. “Hey, baby! How are you?”

Kissing her on the cheek, I disentangle myself. “Fine.”

Aunt D gives me her usual appraisal, beaming like perfect Kate Middleton is beside her. “Ready to eat? I'm starving!”

“You can just take me home. You don't have to hang out with me tonight. I'm fine.”

Aunt D puts the car in reverse. “I know you're fine. But who else am I gonna hang out with? My cats?” She backs up and drives out of the parking lot. The interior of the Mini Cooper is permanently infused with vanilla and coffee. It's delicious. I take a deep breath as my faux aunt turns to me with her trademark grin. “How does Mexican sound?”

The house is still and dark when Aunt Darlene drops me off. Mom forgot to leave the lamp on for me this morning. After the music and crowds at Casa de Amigos, the silence presses on my ears. Flipping on the living room lights, I take the to-go burrito Aunt D ordered for Mom and put it in the fridge.

I text Mom that I'm home, and two minutes later she replies: “Should be home by 10. Hopefully earlier. Slow nite here. Xoxo” followed immediately by “Please don't forget ur pill. Call me asap if u see a rash.”

One lone Lamictal lies on the counter next to an empty glass. I promised Aunt D I'd take it, and surprisingly, she agreed not to come inside this time to witness it for Mom. I palm the tan pill and head upstairs. Pulling out the shoe box, I line the troops up on my night table. I open the Lexapro bottle and drop today's Lamictal inside it. It's slightly OCD, but I like to keep the
L
's together. I lie back on my white down comforter, drowsy from my enchilada and fried ice cream. My bed feels good.

A choo from my phone startles me, and I realize I fell asleep. I'm having a much easier time falling asleep lately, but now is definitely not the time I want to do it.

Shit.

I bolt out of bed, heart slamming against my rib cage. The troops are still out in the open and it's 9:51 p.m. Michael's text woke me, thank God. Mom's not home yet. Ignoring the text, I toss the troops into the shoe box, cover them up and hustle downstairs to Grandma's room. I can't take that chance tonight, leaving them in my room with Mom prowling around all weekend. In the darkness, I whip the plastic box out from under Grandma's bed and struggle with the zipper on the old plaid suitcase. I'm sweating. Every little sound could be the key in the front door.

I tuck the troops inside the suitcase, slide everything back into place and fix the bed skirt. Shaking, I rest my head on Grandma's favorite yellow afghan. I burrow my nose into it, seeking her scent, the Yardley English Lavender we could never find in a store, only online. She'd always ask the salesclerks at Kohl's why they didn't carry it. My throat tightens. I'm tired. Tired of being scared. Tired of this life. I want to go back to when Grandma was alive and I was okay. It's too hard for me now. I start to cry.