I stepped around her, to the next sink down, and turned on the water. I could feel her watching me as I rinsed my hands and pumped the soap dispenser, which was empty as always. “So,” she said, as again I realized there was no stuffiness to her voice whatsoever, “are you okay?”
I turned off the water. “What?”
She reached up, adjusting her glasses. “It’s not really just me asking,” she said. “I mean, it is, obviously. But Owen’s wondering, too.”
Hearing her say Owen’s name was so strange that it took me a moment to wrap my mind around it. “Owen,” I repeated.
She nodded. “He’s just…” She trailed off. “Concerned, I guess, is the word.”
“About me,” I said, clarifying.
“Yeah.”
Something wasn’t right here. “And he asked you to talk to me?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “He’s just mentioned it to me a few times, so I got to wondering, and…then I saw you today. After lunch. You were leaving the library, and you just looked really upset.”
Maybe it was because she’d brought up Owen. Or because at this point, I really didn’t have that much to lose as far as she and I were concerned. Whatever the reason, I just decided to be honest. “I’m surprised,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d care if I was upset.”
She bit her lip for just a second, something I suddenly remembered her doing a million times when we were younger. It meant I’d caught her off guard. “Is that what you really think?” she said. “That I don’t like you?”
“You don’t,” I said. “You haven’t, since that summer with Sophie.”
“Annabel, come on. You were the one who blew me off, remember?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Yeah, but nothing. You don’t like me, Annabel.” Her voice was even, level. “That’s the way it’s been since that summer.”
I just stared at her. “But you won’t even look at me in the halls,” I said. “You never have. And that first day, on the wall—”
“You hurt my feelings,” she said. “God, Annabel. We were best friends and you totally dumped me. How did you expect me to feel?”
“I tried to talk to you!” I said. “That day at the pool.”
“And that,” she shot back, pointing at me, “was the only time. Yeah, I was mad. It had just happened! But then you never came around, you never called. You were just gone.”
It was like Emily saying “I’m sorry” to me, a total reversal of how I saw things, which seemed crazy and impossible to process.
“So why now?” I said. “Why talk to me now?”
She sighed. “Well,” she said slowly, “I have to be honest. Rolly’s a big part of it.”
Rolly, I thought. Then I remembered that night, him clutching those waters. Tell Owen he was right about everything, he’d said, so excited. “You and Rolly?” I said.
She bit her lip again, and I could have sworn she blushed, but only for a second. “We’re talking,” she said, reaching down to tug at the hem of her TRUTH SQUAD T-shirt, which, now that I noticed, looked awfully worn for someone who had only just seen the band for the first time a month and half earlier. “Anyway, that night at the club, when he got you to introduce him to me, you said that I hated you. It got me thinking about everything that had happened with us all those years ago. And with Owen talking about you…you’ve been on my mind. So when I saw you today, and you were—”
“Wait,” I said. “Owen talks about me?”
“He hasn’t said all that much,” she told me. “Just that you guys were friends, and then something happened, and now you’re not. Forgive me for saying so, but it sounded, I don’t know, a little bit familiar to me. If you know what I mean.”
I felt myself flush, imagining Clarke and Owen discussing me and my avoidant behavior. How embarrassing.
“It’s not like we discuss you,” she added, as if I’d said this aloud. Which was another thing that I now remembered about Clarke: She could always kind of read my mind.
Clarke was worried about me. Emily was apologizing to me. This was a weird day.
“So are you?” Clarke asked now, as a group of girls came in, cigarettes already out, their faces falling when they saw us there. They grumbled, huddled, then walked back out, presumably to wait until we’d left. “Okay, I mean?”
I just stood there, wondering how to answer this. I realized that for the last few weeks I hadn’t been missing just Owen, but also that part of me that had been able to be so honest with him. Maybe I couldn’t do that here. But I didn’t have to lie, either. So I went for the place I was working toward always: the middle.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Clarke looked at me for a moment. “Well,” she said, “do you want to talk about it?”
I’d had so many chances. Her, Owen, Emily. For so long, I’d thought all I needed was someone to listen, but that wasn’t really true at all. It was me that was the problem. I did this. And now, I did it again. “No,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”
She nodded, then pushed off the sink, and I followed her out of the bathroom. In the hallway, as we prepared to go our separate ways, she reached down to her bag, pulling out a pen and scrap of paper. “Here,” she said as she scribbled on it, then handed it to me. “My cell number. Just in case you change your mind.”
Her name was written beneath it, in the hand I still recognized—clean, block-print, the same little swoop on the final E. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. Merry Christmas, Annabel.”
“You, too.”
As we walked away from each other, I knew I probably wouldn’t call her. Still, I unzipped my bag, stuffing the paper in with the card Emily had given me. Even if I never used either, for whatever reason, it was nice to know they were there.
Another holiday, another trip to the airport. Just like I had about a year earlier, I sat in the backseat, behind my parents, as we headed down the highway, a plane rising from one corner of the windshield to the other as we took the exit. Whitney had stayed home, ostensibly to get dinner ready. So it was just the three of us waiting behind the barricade for Kirsten to emerge from the gate.
“There she is!” my mother said, waving as my sister appeared wearing a bright red coat, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Kirsten smiled, waving back as she walked toward us, the wheels of her suitcase whizzing across the floor.
“Hello!” she said, immediately reaching up to hug my dad, then moving on to my mom, who was already teary-eyed, the way she always was at arrivals and departures. When it was my turn she hugged me tight, and I closed my eyes, breathing in her scent: soap, cold air, and the peppermint of her shampoo, all so familiar. “I am so happy to see you guys!”
“How was the trip?” my mom asked as my dad took the handle of her suitcase and we started across the terminal. “Any trouble?”
“None,” Kirsten said, linking her arm in my mine. “It was all good.”
I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Instead, she just smiled at me, then slid her hand down around mine, squeezing it as we stepped out into the cold.
On the ride home, my parents peppered Kirsten with questions about school, which she answered, and Brian, which she evaded cheerfully, blushing occasionally. The new Kirsten I’d noticed on the phone was clearly in evidence. Her responses, while not curt, were much briefer than any of us were used to, so much so that weird silences kept falling after she spoke, while the rest of us waited for her to start up again. But she didn’t, just sighing instead, or looking out the window, or squeezing my hand, which she was still holding, which she held all the way home.
“I have to say,” my mother said as my dad turned into our neighborhood, “there’s something different about you, honey.”
“Really?” Kirsten asked.
“I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is…” my mother said, looking pensive. “But I think…”
“She’s letting the world get a word in edgewise?” my dad finished for her, glan
cing at Kirsten in the rearview. He was smiling. And right.
“Oh, Daddy,” Kirsten said. “I didn’t used to talk that much, did I?”
“Of course not!” my mother told her. “We always loved to hear what you had to say.”
Kirsten sighed. “I’ve just learned a lot about being more concise. As well as making an effort to hear what’s being said to me. I mean, do you realize how few people actually listen these days?”
I did. In fact, I’d spent the time between school and leaving for the airport finishing up the last tracks of Owen’s OLD SCHOOL PUNK/SKA CD, the final labeled one in the stack he’d given to me. After this, I only had JUST LISTEN left to go, which made me sad. I’d gotten used to spending some time each day or night hearing a few tracks here or there. The act was like ritual, a weird kind of steady comfort, even when the music wasn’t.
While I listened, I usually just lay on my bed with eyes closed, trying to lose myself in what I was hearing. Today, though, as the CD began with the pumping beats of a reggae-style song, I’d pulled my backpack onto my bed, taken out the card Emily had given me and Clarke’s number, then laid them in front of me on the bedspread. As the music played, I studied each one, as if it was important to commit them to memory: the slightly raised type of the D.A. assistant’s name, ANDREA THOMLINSON, the lines across the middle sections of the two sevens in Clarke’s number. I told myself I didn’t have to do anything with either of them. They were just options. Like Owen’s two rings, two messages. And it was always good to know your options.
When we got home, it was already dark, but the house was lit up, and I could see Whitney in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. As we coasted down the driveway, Kirsten squeezed my hand again, and I wondered if she was nervous. But she didn’t say anything.
Inside, the house was warm, and I realized I was starving. Kirsten took in a deep breath, closing her eyes. “God,” she said as my dad led the way in, “something smells amazing.”
“That’s Whitney’s stir-fry,” my mother told her.
“Whitney cooks?” she asked.
I looked ahead to see Whitney standing in front of the island. She had a dishtowel in her hands. “Whitney cooks,” she said. “It should be ready in about five minutes.”
“You are in for a treat!” my mom said to Kirsten, her voice a little bit too loud. “Whitney is a natural in the kitchen.”
“Wow,” Kirsten said. Another silence fell. Then she said to Whitney, “You look great, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Whitney replied. “So do you.”
So far, so good. Beside me, my mother smiled.
“I’ll put your bag upstairs,” my dad told Kirsten, who nodded.
“And I’ll get the salad together,” my mom said, “and then we can all sit down and catch up. In the meantime, you girls can go upstairs and freshen up. How’s that sound?”
“Good,” Kirsten said, looking at Whitney again. My father turned, heading for the stairs with the suitcase. “Sounds great.”
Upstairs, I sat in my room, listening to the noises around me. Kirsten’s room had been pretty much untouched since she’d left, so it was weird to hear activity—drawers being opened and closed, the bumping of furniture being moved around—from that side of the wall. On the other, there were the Whitney noises I was used to: the creak of her bed, the low hum of a radio. When my mom called up to us that everything was ready, we all came out into the hallway together.
Kirsten had changed her shirt and let her hair down. She glanced back at me, then at Whitney, who was behind me, pulling a sweater over her head. “Ready?” she asked, as if we were going farther than just the table. I nodded, and she started down the stairs.
When we came into the dining room, the food was already out: the stir-fry heaped on a big platter, a bowl of brown rice, my mother’s salad, with the dressing, of course, to Whitney’s specifications. Everything smelled great, and my father was standing at the head of the table as we all took our places around him.
Once we sat, my mom poured Kirsten a glass of wine, and my dad, a true meat-and-potatoes person, asked Whitney to please explain, if she could, exactly what we were eating.
“Tempeh and vegetable stir-fry,” she said, “in peanut hoisin sauce.”
“Tempeh? What’s that?”
“It’s good, Daddy,” Kirsten told him. “That’s all you need to know.”
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to,” Whitney said. “Although it is pretty much the best thing I’ve ever made.”
“Just give him some,” my mom said. “He’ll like it.”
My dad looked dubious, though, as Whitney picked up a spoon, putting some onto his plate. As she added the sides, I looked around the table at my family, so different now from a year ago. We would probably never be the way we had been again, but at least we were all together.
As I thought this, I caught a glimpse of lights. Sure enough, in the window behind the row of herbs, a car was passing. As it slowed, the driver looking in at us, I thought again how you could never really know what you were seeing with just a glance, in motion, passing by. Good or bad, right or wrong. There was always so much more.
The rule in our house was that if you didn’t cook, you cleaned up, so after dinner Kirsten, my dad, and I ended up in the kitchen together on dish duty.
“That,” Kirsten said, handing me a soapy pan to rinse, “was delicious. The sauce was to die for.”
“Wasn’t it?” my mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee—but still yawning—replied. “And your father had thirds. I hope Whitney noticed. That’s the best compliment you can give a cook.”
“I never cook,” Kirsten said. “Unless ordering in counts.”
“It does,” my dad told her. He was supposed to be helping, although so far all he’d done was take out the garbage and take a long time to replace the bag. “Calling for delivery is my favorite recipe.”
My mom made a face at him as Whitney, who had disappeared upstairs after dinner, walked in wearing her jacket, her keys in hand. “I’m going out for a little while,” she said. “I won’t be late.”
Kirsten, her hands in the water, turned and looked at her. “Where are you going?”
“Just to this coffee shop to meet some people,” Whitney told her.
“Oh,” Kirsten said, nodding. Then she turned back to the sink.
“Do you…” Whitney paused. “Did you want to come?”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Kirsten told her. “That’s okay.”
“It’s all right,” I heard Whitney say. “I mean, if you don’t mind hanging out there for a little while.”
Again, I felt it: this tentative, careful peace between my sisters—not exactly flimsy, but not set in stone, either. My parents exchanged a look. “Annabel, you want to come?” Kirsten said. “I’ll buy you a mocha.”
I could feel Kirsten’s eyes on me as she asked this, and I thought of her squeezing my hand earlier, and how she was maybe more nervous than she seemed. “Sure,” I said. “Okay.”
“Wonderful!” my mother said. “You all go and have fun. Your dad and I can finish cleaning up.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “We’re only about halfway through—”
“It’s fine.” She stood up, then came over, gesturing me and Kirsten out of the way as she rolled up her sleeves. I looked over at Whitney, standing in the archway. How I’d gotten in the middle of this I wasn’t sure. But here I was. “Just go.”
“Hello, and welcome to open-mike night, here at Jump Java. I’m Esther, and I’ll be your emcee tonight. If you’ve been here before, you know the rules: Sign up at the back, keep it down when someone’s reading, and most importantly, tip your barista. Thank you!”
When we arrived, I’d figured this was just something that happened to be going on. But as Whitney’s friends from her group waved us over, it was clear it was no coincidence.
“So are you ready?” a girl named Jane, who wa
s tall and very thin, wearing a red sweater with a pack of cigarettes poking out of the front pocket, said to Whitney after we got our coffees and had introductions. “And, more importantly, are you nervous?”
“Whitney doesn’t get nervous,” Heather, the other girl, said. She looked to be about my age and had short black hair, cut spiky, and a variety of piercings in her nose and lip. “You know that.”
Kirsten and I exchanged a look. “What would you be nervous about?” she asked Whitney, who was sitting beside me, rummaging through the purse in her lap.
“Reading,” Jane told her, taking a sip from the mug in front of her. “She’s signed up for tonight.”
“She had to sign up,” Heather added. “It was a Moira Must.”
“Moira Must?” I said.
“It’s something from our group,” Whitney explained, pulling some folded papers from her purse and putting them on the table in front of her. “You know, like an assignment. Moira’s one of my doctors.”
“Oh,” Kirsten said. “Right.”
“So you’re reading something you wrote,” I said. “Like part of your history?”
Whitney nodded. “Kind of.”
“All right, we’re ready to get started,” Esther said. “And first up, we have Jacob. Welcome, Jacob!”
Everyone applauded as a tall, skinny guy wearing a black knit cap wound his way through the tables to the microphone. He opened a small spiral notebook, then cleared his throat. “This is called ‘Untitled,’” he said as the espresso machine hissed from behind us. “It’s, um, about my ex-girlfriend.”
The poem he began to read started with images about daylight and dreaming. Then it began to build quickly, his voice rising until it was just a staccato list of words that he spit out, one right after another. “Metal, Cold, Betrayal, Endless!” he was saying, as the occasional bit of spit arced over the mike. I glanced at Whitney, who was biting her lip, then at Kirsten, who looked completely entranced.
“What is this?” I whispered.
“Shhh,” she said.
Jacob’s poem went on for what seemed like a long time before ending, finally, with a series of long, breathless gasps. When he was done, we all sat there for a second before deciding it was okay to clap.