Untethered (10 page)

Dad pulls up and I get into the car.

I hug my bags of books close. This is it. I now have more than enough information on voluntary astral projection to look through ... and to try it.

Dad gets us back home by dinnertime.

Sam gets out of the car, but Dad puts his hand on my arm to make me wait. “Here,” he says and hands me a plain paper bag.

“What’s this?” But when I look inside, I understand. There are several Nestle Crunch bars, a couple of Snickers, and some Reese’s Pieces. I’ve been sneaking home candy I bought from the gas station, but getting this from him is almost like before.
Almost
. My throat feels blocked up, so instead of saying thanks I just nod and follow Sam inside.

Mom is at the kitchen stove heating up her Leftover Surprise for dinner – the surprise being that we actually eat it. The second we get in, she wipes her hands so she can set them on her hips. I think she’s going to heave warnings at us about going out on weekends, but she doesn’t. She narrows her eyes at us and asks, “Did you eat
anything
that didn’t come from a fast-food place this weekend?”

Fruit Loops don’t seem to count.

We eat our overcooked and excruciatingly healthy leftovers to the hum of the refrigerator. Even after two weeks, it’s hard to get used to a meal with just the three of us.

Next door, in the glowing light of the kitchen window I can just make out Cassie through the lace curtains. She waves to me and holds up her phone and two seconds later my cell rings.

“You’re having Leftover Surprise, aren’t you?” Cassie sounds amused.

“How’d you know?”

“I can tell by the weird smell coming from your place. Come over after. You’ll still be hungry. My mom was in a great mood today and cooked. I’ll save you some of her sausage lasagna.”

My mouth waters thinking about it. “You’re a goddess.”

“I know,” she says, dead serious.

Mom gives me the okay to go next door once my supper is done. I go and knock on Cassie’s front screen door. I can hear her parents laughing somewhere in the house. I shuffle my feet on the porch. When was the last time my parents laughed together? Then a memory hits. Last year. We all rented an old Cameron Diaz film. Mom and Dad were practically limp they were laughing so hard. So was I. And then I lost the hold I had on my body. And my bones collapsed without me holding them up.

Everybody stopped laughing.

Now Cassie answers the door, a smile on her face, beautiful. “I got my car!”

“No way!”

She pulls me to the driveway, where a shiny yellow Toyota stands at attention. “It’s used, but it looks great, doesn’t it?”

We sit inside. It’s weird, the car is used but it smells like new. I wonder if they bottle that smell at all car dealerships. “You’re so lucky, Cass. My parents won’t even let me take the stupid station wagon, let alone buy me my own car.”

Cassie eyes sparkle. “Wanna go for a spin?”

The weather is clearing up, and the air is humid but warm. We drive up and down streets, the windows open wide, the radio blasting, singing at the top of our lungs. We drive past the lake and honk at the seagulls and the people jogging. And we bust up laughing as Cassie squeals her tires around a corner.

“I’ve got something else to show you, too,” Cassie says when she pulls into her driveway. “My Morpho Godarti from Peru arrived yesterday.” A new butterfly.

In her room, she points to a bluish-silvery butterfly in a frame on the wall, squeezed next to all the other butterflies in frames on the wall. “Isn’t it great?”

“It’s pretty,” I admit, admiring how shiny it is. I sit down on her bed, grab a fuzzy purple stuffed heart and pet it. Her room is girly. Pink and purple and turquoise fuzz everywhere. And then there are the butterflies. From white to orange to yellow to black, she has them all; well, all that are legal, anyways. “So what’s it now? 115?”

“This is 117.”

“You know, you can
use that wall,” I say, pointing to the only place where not one frame is hung. “I don’t mind.”

Almost three years ago I painted a mural on the wall opposite her windows. Butterflies, of course. I did it after our eighth-grade graduation ceremony.

The day of the ceremony and dance, her parents went off to some friends’ house for a lunchtime barbecue that Cassie didn’t want to go to. So we spent all day at my house getting ready. Painting our nails. Playing with each other’s hair. Even cold-waxing our legs (big, big mistake – though not as bad as armpits). But when it was time to go, her parents weren’t back and her dad wasn’t answering his cell. So Cass came with us to the ceremony. It was supposed to be a big deal, the best time of our lives. But Cassie didn’t enjoy one minute. She was angry they weren’t there. Scared they weren’t, too. I don’t know how many times my mom tried calling that cell. Then, around 7 pm, just when the ceremony was ending, they showed up in a flurry, completely mortified.

They’d forgotten. Simple as that.

That’s when Mom stopped the long chats with Mrs. Sanders on the front lawn, when she started in on Dad if he had a beer with Mr. Sanders. And that’s when I painted the mural. Because I wanted to put a smile back on Cassie’s face. (So did her parents. They paid for the paint.)

When I’d started painting, I thought butterflies all looked the same, that just the color of the wings changed. But I used Cassie’s mounted ones as models and saw that each was unique. The body larger here, skinnier there. Some wings longer, some fatter. Some shiny, some matte. Part insect, part angel. Both ugly and beautiful at the same time. And then I thought how caterpillars leave this strange little straightjacket of a cocoon to become these more complex creatures, free as air.

Since then, I can appreciate that Cassie finds butterflies lovely. They are, in a strange way.

Even so, I would never share my bedroom with over a hundred little corpses.

Now, Cassie sits down next to me. “No way am I covering up that wall to hang frames,” she says. “I love it too much. Besides, it took you two months to do. I can take down my bookshelves — that’ll give me lots more room. I’ll just put my books in the den.”

“Cass, if you add more butterflies, you’re going to have to start charging admission. If it weren’t for your bed, I’d swear I was in a museum already.”

“It does kind of look like a museum, doesn’t it? God, I’m a complete loser. Good thing you’re the only one who knows.”

“Takes one to know one.” I smile at her and she grins back. But it wouldn’t matter if she had a thousand butterflies. She might not realize it yet, but she’s no longer a loser. Beauty changes everything.

Even friendships.

“So Kevin asked you out, huh?” I pick at the heart shaped cushion and don’t look her in the eye.

“I told him no, don’t worry.” Her voice is kind of harsh.

I look up and meet her gaze. “I’m not worried.”

She blushes and turns away quickly. Suddenly, it feels like I’m wearing one of those lead aprons they put on you at the dentist’s for x-rays.

I’d planned on telling her about astral projection. About me and how I’ve had what the websites called OBE’s — out-of-body experiences. But our little exchange about Kevin puts me into a mood where I don’t really feel like sharing.

That’s when Mrs. Sanders’ honey voice calls from the kitchen, “Sylvie? I saved you some lasagna. Do you still want some?”

Cassie whispers, “My mom didn’t start with the martinis until six today, so the lasagna turned out perfect.” We giggle and follow the smell of garlic and herbs to the kitchen.

“Hi, Sylvie, baby,” Mrs. Sanders says. “Like Cassie’s car?”

“Awesome.”

Mr. Sanders is leaning against the counter next to Mrs. Sanders. He turns a martini glass around in his hands and starts telling me about horse power and four-wheel-drive and the like. Mrs. Sanders puts my lasagna on a plate while Cassie opens and closes cupboards.

“Mom,” Cassie says. “Where are my Sugar Babies? I thought you went shopping.”

“I did go shopping. But I couldn’t remember what candy you liked. I got Milk Duds.” Cassie’s mom puts the lasagna on the table and motions for me to sit.

“Sugar Babies. Not Milk Duds.”

“Oh, Cassie, they’re both small and round.”

“I’ve been eating them every day for like two years. How can you not know what I like?”

“Honey, there are so many products at the supermarket it makes my head spin.” Mrs. Sanders picks up her glass from the counter and takes a sip.

Almost under her breath, but loud enough for us all to hear, Cassie says, “It’s not the products that make your head spin, Mom. It’s the gin.”

The room is suddenly still. I stop chewing and feel my heart bump up a notch. Cassie’s mom looks at me, then Cassie, and lets out a loud laugh. “Oh, my, you are a riot, Cassie. Isn’t she a riot, Phil?”

“Hilarious,” Mr. Sanders says, eyebrows puckered together. Then he smiles at his wife over his glass.

Cassie looks ticked.

“Sylvie, let me ask you,” There’s a bit of bitter in Mrs. Sanders’ sweet voice. “Would you rather your parents bought you a car or a bag of candy?”

“Uh ... ” I glance at Cassie. I don’t want to let her down.

“It’s not a trick question, Sylvie.” Cassie’s mom won’t give up.

“A car,” I answer, and mouth, “Sorry, Cass!”

I mean, really, no matter how upset Cassie is about the Sugar Babies she has to admit the car’s a damn good deal.

Cassie rolls her eyes at me.

“You’ve got to learn to let the little things go, Cassie, honey.” Mrs. Sanders strokes Cassie’s head. Cassie still looks a little pissed, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Okay, then.” Her mom moves over to me. She comes real close and squeezes my shoulder. “And how are you holding up?”

“All right,” I say, taking in the scent of her: cooking herbs, Chanel, and vermouth.

Mr. Sanders fills his glass and turns to me. “You might need an ear to bend. We’re here if you need us.”

I nod, but don’t say anything because I feel a lump growing in my throat. I can barely remember a time when I didn’t know the Sanders. And even though I can understand Cassie’s getting annoyed with them because of their drinking, they’ve always been really nice to me. Yes, they’ve had some bad parenting moments. But look at them. They’re together. They’re trying. For themselves. For Cassie. That’s something
my
parents sure aren’t doing.

Mr. and Mrs. Sanders smile at me warmly. If you forget the fighting, if you forget they drink a little too much gin and you look at them like that ... see their faces together with Cassie’s, lovely under the yellowy glow of the light, they look like something from one of the Norman Rockwell prints my mom has hanging in the kitchen. They look like a family.

And just like that, something ugly yawns and stretches inside me.

Jealousy.

I try swallowing it along with the sausage lasagna. In the end, though, I have a hard time digesting it.

Eleven

September: Howling at the Moon

Things change Monday at school. Bryce and Kevin high-five Sam and punch him in the arm when they see him in the hallway.

“It’s Sam the marshmallow man!”

“Sam-I-Am!”

Even I seem to shed some of my Psycho persona. So maybe Ashley and Tori don’t treat me differently, but now Kevin winks at me when I pass him. Like I’m normal. Like I’m beautiful. It makes me feel drunk.

But seeing him and Cassie together sobers me up fast.

They don’t
do
anything. Just share a smile in the hall. But I can feel that smile down to my bone marrow.

I catch Cassie’s eye and she breaks the connection fast. “What?!” she says. “It’s nothing.”

But it’s something.

Mrs. Stilke wants to use the prints of our linoleum cuttings for silk screening. We’ve already dug out a picture with a St. Anthony’s theme. “Now’s the time to perfect it,” she says.

Nelson shakes his foot and taps his thumb on the table while he’s trying to think of what else to do. I give him a couple subtle looks, but he doesn’t get it.

“Hey, Nelson,” I say eyeing his foot and hand. “Do you mind?”

He looks down at his moving body parts and his eyes get wide. “Whoa, sorry!” He stops fidgeting immediately.

“It’s all right,” I say. “But I can’t concentrate when the table’s shaking.”

“I can’t concentrate at all.” He leans a bit closer to me. He smells good. Like vanilla and Elmer’s glue. I’m surprised at how all of a sudden I want to breathe in the scent of him. “How was Bryce Hensley’s house?” he asks. “As swag as you expected?”

“Yeah, it –” I stop and think. To be honest, I can’t remember a thing about Bryce’s house. I was too concentrated on Kevin and his stories. “—it was pretty big.”

“Uh huh.” Nelson taps his pencil on his lips. “Hey, hold still a second.”

I do and suddenly his hand is flying across his paper. After a few quick strokes he holds the sketch up. “What d’ya think?”

I frown and say, “Doesn’t look like me.” He’s drawn a girl. Pretty. With upturned lips, deep-set eyes and a strong jut of the chin. She’s got straight hair like mine, but ...

Nelson looks at the paper and then back at me. “Looks just like you.”

“Whatever.” I go back to my linoleum square, adding detail. After a couple minutes, I feel Nelson leaning towards me again.

“You suck,” he says.

“Excuse me!?” My voice gets high, but I stifle a laugh.

Now he turns into a Rocket Pop: his hair blue, his face red, his neck white. “No,” he pleads, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean you suck as in you suck and can’t draw but as in you suck because you’ve already got something near perfection and I’m still struggling with how to make mine work.”

I stare at him.

He looks down at his black fingernails. “I mean, you really don’t suck, ever. Far from it.”

“Okay, Nelson.” He glances up from his hands and I punch his arm. But before I can pull my hand back, he grabs it and squeezes it with his own. He only touches me for a second; the weight of his fingers is warm on my knuckles, then gone. But my heart rate kicks up and every little bit of me tingles.