“Hey,” he says. “How’s it going? Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been … you know.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.” There’s a long pause, and I kind of stare past him, out at the cars in the lot, feeling a little guilty. “How is everyone?”
“Oh, fine. Same-old. We miss you on swim team. Coach has Cassie doing the 100-meter freestyle now.”
I grunt. There’s a small twinge in my chest when Spike gives me the news, but I try to keep my face neutral. I swallow past what feels like a rock in my throat and ask, “How is Cassie?”
“She’s … just Cassie,” Spike says, looking nervous all of a sudden. “She’s taking it a little hard that you haven’t been hanging out with us. She’s been kind of pissed about it, actually.”
“She’s taking it hard?” I burst out. “She’s the one who—” I stop. Spike has no idea. He has no idea I can hear thoughts. He has no idea how angry she really is. Until recently, I didn’t either. “I just—I know she’s been talking about me.”
“I know, I know. Say no more.” Spike puts out a hand like he’s trying to ward off the crazy-chick vibes. “Listen, you know how she says stuff … stupid stuff. She doesn’t mean it. When she gets that way, I’m out.” He pauses, smiling sheepishly. “I’ve been spending a lot of time at the volleyball court lately.”
“She says ‘stuff?’” I say skeptically.
He scratches his neck, not quite meeting my eyes, and changes the subject. “So you started hanging out over here, huh?”
“Yup.” I don’t elaborate.
“Um, are you sure you should be …that emo group is a little … ” He trails off.
“A little what?” My voice gets a slight edge to it. I can’t help it. “Spit it out.”
“I’ve just heard things about that Cody guy. I don’t know. You might want to watch yourself around him.”
“He’s nice,” I say icily, even though it isn’t quite true.
“Okay, whatever. You’d probably know better than I would,” Spike says.
“I think I do.” I give him a challenging stare. What right does he have to barge in and tell me my new friends are jerks? Who is he to judge? No matter what else he says to me, he hangs out with the Zombie Squad every single day.
“Well … anyway. I just wanted to tell you.”
“Sure,” I say. There’s a pause, and then the bell rings. “I’d better get my stuff.”
“Listen, take care, okay? If you get bored at lunch, come play volleyball with me sometime. I mean it.” Spike gives me an awkward hug and saunters back around the art building toward the patio. I wave in his direction, but instead of retrieving my bag, I stand there for a minute, staring out at the parking lot.
I debate trying to underhear what he thought he was doing just now, but my mind is too jumbled to even consider it. I really don’t know if it would work, trying to underhear somebody on purpose.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I know Spike probably means well, but … I think about Mikaela putting the tissue packet in my pocket, about Cody making stupid jokes to try to make me feel better, and I just know he’s wrong.
seven
I glance at Auntie Mina across the restaurant table, my hands twisting the cloth napkin in my lap. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks, and she’s lost weight. Her face is all sharp angles. It makes her look younger somehow, more vulnerable. It could just be the dim lighting throwing shadows across her face, but she looks like Shiri.
Her Caesar salad is practically untouched, the fork resting across the top of the salad bowl with a single lettuce leaf speared on it, as if that will somehow keep us from noticing the fact that the bowl is still full. Eat something, I will her silently. Please.
A dark-haired waiter in a crisp white button-down shirt arrives with our entrees, moves from place to place with a wooden pepper grinder and freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Everyone takes a few bites in silence as other voices murmur around us.
“Well, this is lovely,” my mother says suddenly, with a smile I can tell is forced. She toys with her silver napkin ring absentmindedly. “Thank you again for suggesting this place, Randall.” She doesn’t quite meet his eyes, instead sliding her gaze over to Auntie Mina, who takes a tiny bite of bread under my mom’s scrutiny.
Going out was my parents’ idea. Nobody really wanted to face the traditional Thanksgiving turkey around the Langfords’ huge oak table. Not this year.
“Angelini’s is very classy,” Uncle Randall says, taking a sip of white wine. “I have a lot of business lunches here. Outstanding service.” He addresses all of this to my dad, who gives a noncommittal “hm” and a nod in response.
Auntie Mina pushes the linguine around and around her plate, the Florentine sauce congealing into a gloppy mess. I look down at my three-cheese ravioli, feeling a little ill. I should have just ordered soup.
I wish this dinner were over already.
“Don’t just sit there, eat your food. You love linguine,” Uncle Randall says to Auntie Mina, as if she’s a toddler needing to be coaxed. “You don’t want Chef Carlo to think you didn’t like it.” He smiles and puts a hand on her shoulder.
My fingers tighten around my fork. He really doesn’t see his family as people sometimes, just as shiny trophies from which he feels compelled to polish every last speck of dust lest they make him look bad. Ironically, there is a tiny, circular droplet of pasta sauce on his otherwise immaculate gray shirt.
“I’m just not that hungry,” she says with an apologetic smile.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Uncle Randall says sharply.
“You can always take it home for later,” my dad puts in. Dad told me once that he never cared for Uncle Randall, but he puts up with him because Auntie Mina loves him. Because Dad wants to “keep the peace.” He says that’s what he always did when he and Mina were kids—he’d try to calm down Dada’s furious bouts of temper, be the peacemaker, the appeaser, until finally the yelling would stop.
Right now I wish he would forget about keeping the peace.
“I’m not going to be able to finish all this either,” I say loudly, into the awkward silence. Auntie Mina gives me a little smile, but nobody else says anything. Mom isn’t helping either. She’s got this pained smile plastered on, like she wants to talk but doesn’t know what to say.
They didn’t say anything when Uncle Randall told them what kind of house to buy, either. What kind of neighborhood to live in. The evening after the funeral, my dad sat on the living room couch and drank down three glasses of wine, and then he told me: Uncle Randall was the one who pressured them to move here. He was the one who found an amazing deal on a house for us. They’d always been so grateful, so glad I could grow up close to family. But to me it just seems like more proof that Uncle Randall likes to boss everyone around.
Yet if we’d stayed in Pomona, I never would have grown up with Shiri.
For just a second, I wish we had.
My chest tightens and I put down my fork. My mother and Auntie Mina both glance up at me, so I try to act normally. I swallow my feelings down with a bite of ravioli and force a smile, willing myself not to think. And then I realize my mistake, realize that clearing my mind is the last thing I want to do. But it’s too late.
—can’t see why she doesn’t eat
does she do this just to embarrass—public—
everyone is looking at us
and they all know who we are and what she did—
My head whirling, I feel a surge of anger, of furious emotion that isn’t my own. And it doesn’t stop.