Sadly, I did not even have to think about my answer. “Team Ayre.”
She smiled. “You can stay.”
Layla rolled her eyes as her mother made her way over to the chair, easing herself down onto the seat. Rosie, meanwhile, fetched an afghan from the couch (I heard the dogs snap at her, then each other) while Layla picked up the insulated cup, carrying it into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned, twisting the top back on, and set it on the table.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Mrs. Chatham said as Rosie tucked the blanket over her. “Now, you two stop hovering, I’m fine. You don’t want to be late for Arthur, since he fit you in last-minute.”
“We’ll be back after, just as soon as Mac can pick us up, okay?” Layla told her. “And I have my phone on.”
“I am perfectly capable of spending a couple of hours alone. Now scoot, all of you.”
She waved her hand and her daughters scattered, Rosie picking up her duffel bag while Layla moved to the TV, turning it on and cuing up an episode of Big Chicago I hadn’t yet seen. Elena, the society wife, was crying, although her makeup remained perfect. Mrs. Chatham smiled, settling into her chair. The last thing I heard as we left was her cranking up the volume.
“Nice ride,” Rosie observed as we got into my car. Just like her sister had upon getting in earlier, she ran a hand over the leather seat admiringly, then peered up through the sunroof. “Is it the sport package?”
“Nope,” Layla said. “You can tell by the wheels.”
“Sure beats our cars,” Rosie replied, easing back against the seat. “I could get used to this.”
“Don’t,” Layla told her. “Sydney’s doing you a serious favor.”
“And I appreciate it.”
“Then maybe you should say so.”
“It’s really nothing,” I said. “I hate being home after school anyway.”
This got their attention: I could feel them both look at me, even though I had my eyes on the road. “Really?” Rosie said. “Why?”
“Mind your own business,” Layla told her.
“What? You don’t say something like that unless you want someone to ask about it.”
“What are you, a psychologist now?”
I had a feeling this bickering was close to becoming a full-out argument, something I did not think the small space we were in could handle. So I said, “It’s just sort of . . . weird. Since my brother’s been gone. Lonely, I guess. Anyway, the point is I’m happy to have something to do. Really.”
I could tell Rosie, behind me, wanted to ask more questions. But Layla pulled down the visor, ostensibly checking her face in the mirror there, and shot her a look. We drove the rest of the way, a short distance, without talking.
Once at the rink, Rosie went to the locker rooms while Layla made a beeline for the snack bar and the subpar fries. As the woman behind the counter scooped them into a paper cup, she sighed. “Sorry about all this. My sister makes me nuts.”
“It’s really okay,” I said.
“She’s just so . . .” She sighed again, picking through the basket of ketchup packets, as if one might be better than another. Knowing her, there was a way to tell. “Entitled. Like the world owes her. She’s always been like that.”
“My brother is kind of the same way,” I told her. “I thought it was an only-son thing. But maybe it’s a firstborn thing, too.”
“I think, in this case, it’s just a Rosie thing.” She selected a second packet, then helped herself to some napkins. “At least when she was younger, she could blame the stress of skating, all that competition.”
“She was good, huh?” I said.
“She was great.” Layla slid a five-dollar bill across the counter. “It wasn’t an excuse for being a bitch, of course. But knowing she was capable of something beautiful, as well as being wholly unpleasant? It somehow made it easier to take.”
This made a weird kind of sense to me. Not that my brother had an impressive skill like skating, but he had gotten a long way on charm. Nobody was all bad, I was learning. Even the worst person had someone who cared about them at some point.
Now, back in the bleachers, I watched Layla drag another fry through her pepper ketchup (pepchup?), then take a halfhearted bite. Down on the ice, a middle-aged man with styled blond hair, wearing black Lycra pants and a bright blue fleece, was leading a girl who looked to be about twelve through some jumps. She had that consummate skater look I recognized from Saturday afternoon sports shows, small and lithe with a perky ponytail, and as she landed each jump, the man’s face made it clear whether he was happy or not.
“That’s Arthur,” Layla said when she saw me watching him. “He’s the reason I have crooked teeth and always will.”
“Your teeth aren’t crooked.”
“They’re not straight, either. Not like yours. You had braces, right?”
I nodded. “I hated them.”
“Yes, but look at you now.” She picked up another fry. “I needed them. The dentist said so. But private coaching at Arthur’s level isn’t cheap, so . . .”
Back on the ice, the girl had just landed and was circling around to try again. “Wow. Was she really aiming for the Olympics?”
“Yeah. But never got further than regionals. Then she took the job touring with Mariposa, which at least helped my parents out financially. I was so mad when she got busted and dropped from that show.” She shook her head. “I’m all about taking one for the team. But her being so stupid . . . it stung. Like all those years, all that money, was for nothing.”
As she said this, another girl skated onto the ice. It took me a minute to realize it was Rosie. Maybe it was the distance, or that she’d changed into skating gear, but she looked different. She began circling the outer edge of the ice, slowly picking up speed, and even with this most basic of moves, it was clear she was better than the girl we’d been watching. There was a simple, undiluted grace to her movements, something wholly in contrast to her normal, nose-wrinkled, complaining self. As if instead of shriveling in the cold like most people, she bloomed.
Layla was also watching as she passed by once, then twice. The third time, she turned, lifting her chin to acknowledge us, and Layla nodded back, giving her a smile. This surprised me, after all we’d been talking about. But then, a lot about Layla was a mystery.
“She’s really nervous,” she explained to me, as if sensing this. “She’s been working out alone, but this is the first time he’s agreed to see her since all this happened. That’s why she was being such a bitch. Or one reason, anyway.”
After a few words with Arthur, the younger girl left the ice and he waved Rosie over. They talked for a moment, and then he gestured for her to take another lap, turning to watch her as she began.
“Oh, God, I can’t watch. Even at practice I get crazy nervous for her. I used to be such a mess during competitions. My mom would beg me to go get fries.” She pulled out her phone, typing in her passcode, then opened her pictures. “When I did stay, though, I was always glad. Look at this.”
She handed me the phone, where a video was now playing on the screen. It was of another rink, a fancier one, with Rosie twirling in its center. She started slowly, her arms spread wide, then began to speed up, pulling them in against her until she was almost a blur. Then, as the tinny distant music came to a sudden stop, she did as well, striking a pose with her head thrown back. As the crowd applauded and cheered, the sound a thunderous roar, she smiled.
“That was the last year she competed,” Layla said. She flipped to the next shot, which showed Mrs. Chatham, clearly in better health, posing with Layla, Rosie (who held a bouquet of roses), and a huge trophy. Off to the side was a heavyset guy in a shapeless sweatshirt and jeans, half cut off by the camera. At first I assumed he’d just stumbled into the picture accidentally. Then I realized.
“Is that . . .” I stopped, then pic
ked up the phone, narrowing my eyes at it.
“Mac,” she finished for me. “Yeah. It is.”
I reached down, using my thumb and forefinger to enlarge that part of the photo until his face filled the screen. With a much heftier frame and a bad case of acne, he looked so different, I couldn’t quite believe it was the same person. But the eyes were identical, the hair with the lock tumbling over his forehead. “Wow. What did he—”
“Lost thirty pounds, for starters. And when he started eating better, his skin cleared up.” She picked up another fry. “Crazy, right? Sometimes I still see him in the hallway at home and wonder who he is.”
“I can’t believe he looked like that.”
“You would if you saw how he used to eat. The boy could consume. He was like Irv, but without the height, muscle, and football. And it was all junk.”
“I can’t even imagine that.” I was still staring at his face, wider, pockmarked. “What made him want to change?”
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked, nodding at the picture. She ate the fry. “Really, though, I think he finally just got sick of being the fat kid. It was what he’d been for as long as I can remember. Rosie was talented, I was cute. He was fat.”
This wasn’t news to me, how your entire life could come down to one word, and not of your choosing. I knew it better than anyone. Each time I was reminded, though, I wished that much harder it wasn’t the case. I said, “So how did he lose the weight?”
“He started by hiking in the woods. Then he moved up to jogging, and finally outright running. He’d get up before school and just disappear back there for hours. Still does, every single morning.”
“Really.”
“Just hearing him leave at five thirty a.m. makes me tired,” she said. “Plus he never eats, like, anything fun anymore. Just protein, veggies, and fruit. I wouldn’t last a day. Or even an hour.”
There was a shout from the ice, and we both looked back at Rosie, who had just landed a jump, apparently rather sloppily. Arthur shook his head, then barked something else, and she circled around, nodding, her hands on her hips.
“Ugh,” Layla said, wiping her fingers with a napkin. “I can’t take this, it’s too stressful. Before I know it I’ll be buying more of these awful fries just to cope.”
I smiled, then looked at my watch. It was five forty-five; I had to be home in fifteen minutes, which meant even if I left right that second I’d be pushing it. I was not looking forward to dinner and more discussion of Lincoln’s Family Day, however, so I stayed put long enough to see Rosie do a few spins, stumble once, and finally earn the slightest of approving smiles from Arthur, the sight of which caused Layla to audibly exhale.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her, gathering up my stuff. “Sorry I can’t take you guys home.”
“It’s fine. Mac’s always somewhere nearby. And you’ve done more than enough.”
I smiled, then waved as I started down the steps to the exit. Before I pushed open the door to the lobby, I looked back just in time to catch Rosie doing her best jump yet, then sticking the landing and gliding on. It seemed like just the right note to depart upon, with everything perfect, at least for a second. I left before I could see anything else.
CHAPTER
9
“YOU’RE HERE!” Jenn reached forward, grabbing my wrist and pulling me through the door with one big yank. “I am so, so happy to see you! It’s been ages!”
When she gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, though, I knew something was up. Jenn was a lot of things, but effusive wasn’t one of them.
“Hey,” I said as she began pulling me down the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“We are having so much fun,” she said. “Come on, you have to meet Margaret.”
Judging by the dragging, it was clear I didn’t have a choice in the matter, so I let her take me into the kitchen. There, I saw Meredith at the island, looking uneasy, while a dark-haired girl with her back to me dumped some ice in the blender.
“Sydney’s here!” Jenn, who also was not loud—ever—shouted. “And she needs a drink.”
“Of course she does,” Margaret said, turning around. She had long black hair tumbling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles. A pretty girl, with a kind of spark to her you saw right away. “And it’s a fresh batch, to boot. Let me get you a glass.”
It was when she moved aside, reaching up into a cabinet, that I saw the rum bottle. I looked back at Meredith, who had her own glass, which looked untouched. Two others on the island held only slushy dregs. “What are we drinking?”
“Piña coladas,” Jenn announced. “Margaret’s special recipe. And they are delicious.”
“The ice is key,” Margaret explained, pouring a glass, then topping off the two empty ones. “Most people don’t realize that.”
When she handed me my glass, I took it, but didn’t drink. “So your parents aren’t here?”
“No, they’re in the living room,” Jenn replied. I just looked at her. “I’m joking! Of course not. They’re out for the night. I told them we were going to Antonella’s for pizza and then watching movies.”
“And we’re not?” I asked.
“Is that what you want to do?” Margaret asked me.
“No,” I said. There was something about her tone, the way she raised an eyebrow, that made me say this automatically. “I just didn’t realize . . . Since when do you drink, Jenn?”
She put down her glass, then wiped a hand over her lips. “What do you mean? I’ve drank before.”
“When?”
“All the time. You know that, Sydney.”
Margaret was watching this exchange, an expression of mild amusement on her face. Over at the island, Meredith picked up her glass and took a sip.
“Okay,” I said, not wanting to point out that I’d known Jenn since preschool and never seen her do anything more than take a parent-approved sip of wine at Christmas dinner. I sniffed my drink. “What’s in this?”
“Oh, just drink it,” Margaret said, flipping her hand at me. “It’ll help you relax.”
I looked at her. “I don’t need to relax.”
She took a big gulp of her own drink. “All I’m saying is that this is a birthday celebration. So let’s have fun, okay?”
“Seconded,” Jenn said, holding out her glass. Margaret did the same before nodding at Meredith, who raised hers as well. Then they all looked at me.
I picked up my glass. “To Jenn. Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday!” everyone repeated. Clink. Jenn immediately took a big gulp, but Margaret kept her eyes on me, not drinking, as I raised my glass to my mouth, taking a sip. Then she did the same, still watching me.
“Okay,” she said, and smiled. “Now it’s a party.”
* * *
“Just text him. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”
Jenn shook her head, blushing. “I can’t! It’s too weird.”
“Oh, please.” Margaret reached across the couch, grabbing the phone. “I’ll do it, then.”
“Don’t!” Jenn shrieked, lunging at her to get it back. “Oh, my God, Margaret, if you do that I swear I’ll—”
“—thank me forever for hooking you up with the guy you’re crazy about? You’re welcome.” She started typing on the phone with one hand while batting Jenn away with the other. “There. It’s done. Now we wait.”
“I hate you,” Jenn said, but she was grinning, her face flushed. She’d had two drinks, by my count, since I’d arrived.
“Maybe,” Margaret told her. “But when he shows up, you’ll love me.”
The He in question was Chris McMichaels, who apparently my best friend had been madly in love with for ages, although she’d never mentioned it to me. Margaret, however, knew that he sat behind Jenn in World History, often asked her if she could spare pap
er or a pen, and had recently broken up with his longtime girlfriend, Hannah Riggsbee, leaving him, in Margaret’s words, “ripe for the picking.”
“He probably thinks I’m crazy,” Jenn moaned, putting her head in her hands. “Texting him on a Friday night.”
“If he didn’t want to hear from you, he wouldn’t have given you his number,” Margaret said, topping off each of their glasses.
“That was for a group project!”
Margaret waved her hand. “Details.”
Just then, the phone buzzed. Jenn went for it, but Margaret got there first, scanning the screen. “Well, look at this. He’s around and says he’ll stop by with some friends.”
“What?” Jenn shrieked—the sound was shrill, grating—grabbing the phone. She read the text, then looked up, eyes wide. “You told him we were drinking?”
“You did,” Margaret said. “It’s a party, right?”
“Oh, my God.” Jenn grabbed my arm. “Chris McMichaels may be coming over here? To my house? I don’t know if I can handle this.”
“Of course you can. I’ll make another round.”
With that, Margaret picked up the empty pitcher and turned on her heel, going back into the kitchen. Finally, it was just the three of us.
“Jenn,” I said as she took another sip, “are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
I glanced at Meredith, who looked as hesitant as I felt. “I mean, come on. You don’t drink. And now you have guys coming over?”
She turned to look at me, annoyed. “What is wrong with you tonight?”
“Me?” I said. “You’re the one acting weird.”
“I’m having fun, Sydney. It’s my birthday.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m your best friend, remember?”
“Then why are you being such a buzzkill?” She shook her head, sighing. “Honestly, I’m shocked. With your history, I figured you’d be the last person to be so judgy.”