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PART TWO
Twenty-Four Hours
8. How Do You Think It Feels
AT BREAKFAST THAT MORNING I couldn’t eat; only sipped at some orange juice while my father read the Times.
“You’ll miss the bus,” he said, reaching for his coffee.
I nodded and stared into my glass. I’d made a quick job of cleaning my room, shoving the torn pages into the wastebasket and sweeping most of the seedpods under the bed. Now I felt exhausted and depressed. I’d never been very good at shaking off bad dreams, and last night’s clung to me like a fever. I considered pleading sick and going back to bed, but the thought of being alone in my room was worse than almost anything else I could imagine—except, perhaps, seeing Axel Kern that night at his party.
“Lit?” My father frowned over the top of the Arts and Leisure section.
“Okay, I’m off,” I sighed. “Don’t worry, Hillary’ll drive me—” I kissed him, grabbed the canvas bag that held my schoolbooks and started for the door.
“Your mother won’t be home this afternoon.” My father put down the paper and looked after me, his mournful face unusually pensive. “I have to go down to the city to see a casting agent. Then we’re going to meet your mother for dinner with the Kingsleys in New Canaan, and then we’ll all go over to Axel’s for this party. What are your plans, Lit?”
“I dunno.” I hesitated. I would never admit it, but the thought of going to Axel’s party without my parents now frightened me. “Actually, I’m not feeling so hot. I was thinking that maybe—”
My father gave me Unk’s best bone-freezing stare. “I want you there tonight, Lit.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts.’ Be there.”
“Right.” I nodded, defeated. “I’ll just go to Ali’s after school, I guess. Or Hillary’s—”
“Not with his parents gone; not if we’re not here. Call us from Ali’s house if you need a ride up to Bolerium. We expect to see you there this evening, Lit.”
“Yeah.”
I shouldered my bag and headed outside. It was a chill morning. The sky was dark and forbidding; to the east a thin line of blue was eroded by swiftly moving clouds. Alongside the road the trees were bare, save for a few oaks clinging to tatterdemalion crowns. I went next door, slowing to walk through the leaves in front of Hillary’s house. My unease was now fullblown dread: worse than when I listened to one of Ali’s ghost stories, worse than when I took the SATs, worse than anything I could remember. I knew this was ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake it. I stopped and stared down at the leaves, nudging them around to see if I could find the mask Hillary had tossed there the night before. There was no sign of it, and finally I gave up. I let myself in the front door and found Hillary in the kitchen beside the stove.
He raised a spatula in greeting. “Hey, Lit. French toast?”
“Yeah.” I poured some coffee and peeked through the window at my house.
“What’s going on?” Hillary dropped a chunk of butter into a skillet. “Is he, like, watching?”
“I don’t know. Wait—”
I pointed at my father striding out the side door of our house. He wore a long black greatcoat that flapped behind him in the wind, and even from this distance I could see his saturnine face scowling furiously as he swiped leaves and fallen twigs from the car windshield. Against the backdrop of stark trees and lowering sky he looked faintly threatening, like a wicked parson.
“He’s going now,” I whispered, as though my father could hear me. He clambered into the old VW squareback and backed it out into the road. I held my breath, fearful that he’d see Hillary’s car still in the drive and realize I hadn’t left. But he didn’t; only turned and headed off for the village train station. “He’s—gone.”
“Ali called.” Hillary handed me a plate swimming with maple syrup. “She wants to go to the Elephant’s Trunk. She can’t cut Interdisciplinary again, so I told her we’d pick her up afterward.”
I slid behind the table and ate while Hillary cleaned up. He seemed pensive, even brooding, and with his usual offhand grace had dressed the part—an old tuxedo shirt of Edmund’s tucked into his patched and embroidered jeans, a dark blue naval officer’s jacket. I watched him stalk across the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and gathering his books for school. I said nothing, recalling his anger last night. But I felt uncomfortable—it wasn’t like Hillary to stay mad about anything. When I finished eating we went out to the car, still without speaking, and drove to pick up Ali.
“I need earrings if we’re going to this thing tonight,” she announced as she clambered into the front seat beside me. She shivered dramatically. “God, it’s cold.”
Hillary eyed her outfit—short-sleeved black leotard, black ballet slippers, bell-bottom jeans so frayed her skin showed through. The same thing she’d been wearing yesterday, as a matter of fact. “Maybe you should put some clothes on.”
“Screw you.”
Ali leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrinkled my nose. She smelled of smoke and patchouli oil and something I didn’t recognize, a sweetish, faintly chemical odor. “Didn’t you go home last night, Ali?”
“Uh-uh. I crashed at Jamie’s.” She yawned, and I felt a stab of hopeless envy, seeing her in bed with Jamie Casson. She had dark circles under her eyes; her lips looked swollen and bitten, and there was a tiny greenish bruise on one arm. “You guys didn’t bring me any coffee, did you?”
Hillary snorted. “Yeah, sure, Ali! And pancakes, too! No, I didn’t bring you coffee. Wasn’t there any at his place?”
“No. Ralph won’t buy coffee. He says it’s, like, a capitalist plot to steal money from the Aztecs.”
“The Aztecs?”
“Or something,” said Ali defensively. “Gimme a break, I feel like shit.”
“That’s good. Cause you look like shit,” I said, and ducked as she elbowed me.
Hillary drove us to the Elephant’s Trunk, a head shop in Mount Kisco, where Ali bought a little brown vial of amyl nitrite (HEART-ON EXOTIC FRAGRANCE, the label read) and I tried on an orange-and-green paisley Indian print dress. It was low-cut and calf-length; long shirred sleeves, flowing skirt, no tassels.
“What do you think?”
Great, Ali mouthed. She sat on the floor, eyes huge as teacups, the open vial cupped in one unsteady hand. “Grrr—unh…”
She slumped against the wall. Ignoring her, Hillary stepped over to examine me. He frowned. “It’s sort of a funny color. It’s sort of two funny colors.”
“It’s orange,” I said.
“Well, yeah, that’s what I mean. It’s sort of a weird shade on you. I mean, isn’t it sort of a weird color on anyone, orange and green? I thought you were going with your mother—”
I gave him an icy look. “What, to Lord and Taylor? I like it—” I ran my hands over the bodice. “It’s cool.”
“Don’t listen to him, it’s great.” Ali got up and stumbled toward me. “And it looks really cool with those boots. But you need a necklace or something. C’mon.”
I picked out a pukka-shell necklace and a handful of silver bracelets so thin and supple it was like wearing a Slinky on my wrist. For herself Ali chose a pair of very large earrings, Mexican silver inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and shaped like peacock feathers. Hillary flipped through a bin of used albums, every now and then holding one up for me to see.