If You Only Knew (3 page)

He spun around. His black-brown eyes moved up my body, from my sneakers to my bust to my face. I quickly sat down on the curb, because my fingers and toes started prickling the way they did right before I fainted last year as stitches were being removed from my chin. Whoa. When did he turn so cute?

“Did you think that was weird, yesterday?” I managed to ask.

“What?” He pushed the sweaty dark hair off his forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt up his face. I mean, he put a worm on my head in kindergarten. I helped him with his soapbox derby car for Cub Scouts. I know about his mother’s menstrual problems. He’s practically my brother. But now when I think about the time he kissed Morgan Miller in his tree house last year, I imagine it was me. I wouldn’t break up with him for kissing.

“What?” he asked again.

“That I played catch with you guys? Instead of staying with the girls?”

“No.” He made a face like,
What a stupid question
. That’s what I like about him. He’s very no-bull. I guess he gets that from his mom.

“Just wondering.”

“Because you’re not, like, a girl,” he said.

“Really? I’m not?” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. “Well, won’t my dad be psyched.”

“No,” he said. He twirled his grip in his palms so the racquet spun. I taught him how to do that in July. “Like, you don’t care how you look, and stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said. I pulled my ponytail tighter. I don’t think about how I look all the time, it’s true, but I do care. Of course I care.

“In a good way,” Tommy said. “Like, you’re not all whispery. You’re more like one of the guys.”

“Oh,” I said. “Just wondering.” I rested one foot on top of the other. When Devin does that, she looks cute. I wanted him to notice me, differently. That I’m not totally one of the guys.

“Besides, you have a better arm than most of us.”

“Thanks,” I said. I tried to flash him one of Devin’s half-smiles, slowly spreading across my face, slyly like she does it. It felt sort of fake, though, and ended up turning into just my own smile, showing too much of my gums, probably.

He smiled back. “But your forehand wobbles.”

“In your dreams,” I answered.

He ran toward his door, grinning that sarcastic grin of his.

On my way back over the fence, I scraped my leg, and the blood made tracks through the dirt on its way down to my sock. I tried to decide if it looked tough or just gross. Why should I care if my leg is all scabby for the first day of school? I bent down to inspect it and ended up just spacing, sitting in my yard.

I’m one of the guys, he said. Well, I’ve always felt like it’s a lot better to be a tomboy than a priss. I can’t go back on that now.

Some things I guess I do keep private.

three

S
eventh grade. My eyes popped
open—I didn’t want to be last in the shower and freeze. I jumped up and made my bed in one motion. Who cares what Devin says? Just because seventh grade was the worst for her, I decided, doesn’t mean it will be worst for me.

I grabbed my towel and ran down the hall. I was halfway naked by the time Anne Marie opened the bathroom door.

“Come on,” Anne Marie tried.

“Sorry.” I turned on the water and stepped into the shower. Nice and hot. I let myself enjoy it for a second, then made it cooler so Devin, who’s always last in, wouldn’t be an icicle on the first day of school.

“You know,” said Anne Marie, “this is my last first day.”

“What?” I knew without looking that she was sitting on the toilet seat, her towel folded in her lap. It’s almost always between me and Anne Marie for second shower (Dad gets up in the dark), and whoever loses sits on the toilet and talks.

“The last first day of school I’ll be here,” she said. I had heard her fine the first time. I’d never considered it before—this was the last first day of school all the Grandon girls would have together, because next year Anne Marie would be away at college.

“Yeah,” I said. I kept my eyes closed so no soap would get in while I rinsed.

Usually we talk straight through, but she didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t, either. I decided to put off thinking about how different next year will be without Anne Marie, who really runs things around here. I can’t deal with more than one trauma at a time. Right then I had to get ready for the first day of middle school alone.

I turned off the water and grabbed the towel Anne Marie shoved in for me. While I dried myself and she showered, I asked, “Was seventh grade your worst year?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Um . . . eighth, I think. Yeah, eighth.”

“How come?”

“Oh, everything. Pimples. Remember my chin?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you. Plus I was all jagged edges, and life felt so fragile. I was, like, barbed wire, and life was like panty hose I tried to slip through, but it was always catching on me. Maybe I should write a poem.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You should.” She won English student of the month twice last year. She’s very deep and poetic. I wasn’t sure what she meant; I’m just regular. Besides, I haven’t worn panty hose that much.

“Plus Bay made starter on soccer, and I sat on the bench,” she added.

“You didn’t play?” I was surprised.

“Barely,” she said. “And my little sister got MVP. Ugh. Be glad you’re not in eighth grade.”

“I don’t remember you sitting on the bench,” I said.

She turned off the water. I pushed her towel in past the shower curtain. “How could you remember?” she asked, taking the towel. “You were a baby.”

We walked back down the hall to our rooms. My black jeans were a little tight from the dryer but the scab on my knee was pretty gross-looking, so shorts were out. I like to wear pink on the first day of school because it seems like a friendly color, so I took out Devin’s old oversized pink T-shirt, which I’d been saving. I do care how I look.

I combed my hair, sitting on the bed to fight the knots (and stretch out the jeans), and thought about what Anne Marie had said. I was a baby. I wondered how much else I had missed. I hate missing stuff. But then I smelled French toast so I stopped thinking. I jammed my feet into my sneakers and skidded down the steps. Devin was hitting her snooze again.

“Save some for me,” Bay yelled from the shower.

“No way!” Anne Marie yelled, right behind me. My dad makes amazing French toast. He’s a baker and totally obsessed with bread. Anytime we go on a vacation, it’s always to some place with brick ovens or yeast.

I was on my second piece and Bay had just finished her first when Colette drifted down. She filled a glass with water and sat in her seat next to me. Dad plopped a big piece of French toast onto her plate.

“No, thank you,” Colette said.

Dad’s smile stiffened a little. “I made it special, on my best barley bread. Good start to your first day.”

“I’m on a diet,” Colette said, sipping her water. I bent my head down and ate a huge hunk of French toast and thought,
No, no, no
.

“You are not going to school until that French toast is eaten,” Dad enunciated. His fists were on the table, with the spatula gripped tight in one of them. I didn’t dare look up at his face.

Next to me, Colette leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her tight T-shirt. Her words, like Dad’s, get superarticulated when they’re starting one of their fights. “Fine,” she said, chiseling each sound, “then I won’t go to school.”

“Morning!” Devin ran into the dining room upside down, flipping her head to gather her wet hair into a ponytail. “Mmm, yum.” She flipped up, kissed Dad on the cheek, grabbed a plate, and forked a slice of French toast. “What time is it, A.M.?”

The rest of us were staring at our plates, not moving, but Devin either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Anne Marie looked down at her watch and mumbled, “Eight minutes.”

“I WANT YOU TO HAVE A GOOD START TO YOUR DAY!” Dad screamed. “I mean it!” He slammed the spatula down on the table and stormed off toward the stairs, with Elvis, a blur of black Lab, right behind him. Dad tells on Colette to Mom, who thinks he should relax. We listened to him stomping up toward their bedroom.

“Well,” said Devin. “And what a Good Start it is.”

I tried not to smile because you just never know how Colette will react, but across the table, Bay cracked up. Anne Marie and Devin both started giggling, and when I dared look at Colette, there was a smile fighting its way onto her face, too.

“I’m not eating it,” she said, struggling to stay serious.

“He didn’t say you had to eat it,” Anne Marie murmured.

“Yes, he did,” said Bay.

“No.” Anne Marie finished chewing and wiped her face on her napkin. “He said you’re not going to school until that French toast is eaten.”

“That’s what he said,” I agreed.

Bay stuck her fork into Colette’s French toast and brought it over to her plate. She cut it, tossed half onto my newly emptied plate, and said, “Hurry.”

“But I . . .”

Before I could finish saying I was totally stuffed on two huge pieces, Bay said, “Shut up and eat.”

“Well, I’m not lying,” said Colette.

“Why do you have to make such a
point
of it?” Devin asked. “Say what you need to, and get on with your life.”

Colette looked at Anne Marie. We waited.

“Just avoid the question,” Anne Marie said as she cleared her stuff into the kitchen. That seemed to settle it, pretty much. Anne Marie is like the junior mom of our house so she makes the rules; only Dad ever appeals her decisions to the real Mom.

I was shoving the last hunk of French toast into my mouth when Dad came storming down the stairs followed by Elvis and then Mom, who was holding an unplugged curling iron in her hair.

“Delicious!” Devin yelled, grabbing up her own plate and Colette’s. “We made her eat it,” she whispered to Mom.

“You ate?” Mom asked Colette. She released the curling iron and fluffed her hair a little.

Colette opened her mouth but Bay was faster. “Delicious, right, Colette?”

Mom and Dad looked at Colette. Anne Marie and Devin peered in from the kitchen. Bay and I held our breath. “I guess,” Colette said. I finished chewing her last bite.

“Was it so bad?” Dad asked. He turned to Mom. “It took me five hours last night to make that barley bread. I made the Welsh barley bread, and . . .”

“Leave her alone, Arnie,” Mom said. “She said she ate. Enough. Who even cares? What time is it? I have to be at work . . .”

“Seven forty-four. Gotta go,” yelled Bay.

Mom headed toward the kitchen and threw her curling iron on the counter, mumbling, “Constant referee.”

We all grabbed our lunches and kissed Dad. Well, Colette didn’t. “Love you,” Dad said to each of us, and then, “Come on, Elvis.” He doesn’t need to urge Elvis to come with him. Elvis is practically Dad’s third foot.

“Don’t forget your lunch!” Mom yelled after us. All five of us held up our brown bags as we scuffed down the back walk. She says don’t forget your lunch instead of I love you.

On the way to the bus stop I felt like an elephant, so I lumbered behind with Colette. “I would’ve sat there all day,” she said.

I could just see her sitting at the dining room table with her arms crossed when we got home. I shook my head. “I’ve never eaten so much French toast so fast in my life.”

“I would’ve,” Colette insisted.

“I believe you.” I did, and I was too full to argue, anyway.

“I don’t care if it’s Welsh or not. I hate him.”

I looked at her, stomping beside me. She’s not much taller than I am and weighs ten pounds less. Since she showers at night, Colette was the only one of us with dry hair, and hers is the curliest. Like Dad’s. She and Dad are a lot alike. I would never hate my father, as annoying as he can be. He’s just Dad. I can’t really see myself hating anybody. Not even Colette.

Her blue eyes, all outlined in black, looked so haunted and angry I almost asked her why she would do that to herself, but instead I said, “I like your eyeliner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

She pushed her hair away from her face and asked, “Why don’t you wear any makeup?”

I shrugged. “I think I’d feel too noticeable.”

“Because you could be really pretty if you tried.” She tucked my hair behind my ear.

“You think so?” I tucked back the other side.

She squinted at me. “Long blonde hair, the bluest eyes, high cheekbones—face it, Zoe. You’re a dish.”

“Please,” I said, thinking,
Really?

“You are,” she said. “You know, you’re my second favorite sister.”

“I am?” That really surprised me. I thought she probably hated me, too.

She nodded.

I don’t think she’s my second favorite sister. She scares me. Besides, I wasn’t sure whether or not to feel jealous that I only came in second. “Who’s first?” I asked.

“He can’t make me eat,” she answered.

“Hey,” I said. “What did you do yesterday? Devin wouldn’t tell me. Is Devin your favorite?”

We were almost at the bus stop. She stopped and whispered, “It’s a secret.”

“I won’t tell,” I swore.

She stared me in the eyes for a few seconds. I thought,
Please, please
. Then she lifted her T-shirt to show her belly button. It had a very small gold hoop through it.

“Whoa,” I said. “Did that hurt?”

“It kills. But I think it looks fierce, don’t you?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer because her boy-friend, Matt O’Donnell, yelled her name. He has the beginnings of a mustache and a ponytail. She skipped over to him and they started kissing hello.

Everybody watched. The high school bus pulled up before they finished. They ended the kiss and smiled at each other. A twelfth-grade boy clapped; Matt bowed. He’s sort of cute, I guess, in a grimy way. Even Colette has someone. Everybody but me trudged up the steps.

“You coming?” the driver asked me.

I realized I was just standing there spacing out. “No,” I said. “I . . . I’m . . .” I was thinking it might be interesting to be Colette for a day and do only what I feel like doing, not worry about anybody else or how they’re feeling. Be all jagged edges, make a point of things, run some panty hose, or whatever Anne Marie was saying. Let everybody else be careful of me, for a change. Pierce my belly button. Make out at the bus stop. Yeah, sure.