Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Acknowledgments
Sample Chapter from DEFINITIONS OF INDEFINABLE THINGS
Buy the Book
Singular Reads
About the Author
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Claire LaZebnik
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
[email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
Title hand-lettering by Lee Crutchley
Cover illustration by Lee Crutchley
Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: LaZebnik, Claire Scovell, author.
Title: Things I should have known / Claire LaZebnik.
Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2017]
Summary: “A popular Los Angeles teen tries to find love for her older, autistic sister”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016010017 | ISBN 9780544829695 (hardback)
Subjects: | CYAC: Sisters—Fiction. | Autism—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L4496 Th 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016010017
eISBN 978-1-328-69894-0
v1.0317
I’ve mentioned my husband, Rob, in several previous dedications, but he’s never had one all to himself. And he deserves one all to himself. He also deserves a wife who’s as patient, capable, and kind as he is, but since that’s not going to happen . . . this book is dedicated to him.
One
THERE’S A SWEET burnt-jelly smell in the air. When I enter the kitchen, Ivy’s standing by the toaster.
“Hey, Ives. Making a snack?” I stick a mug of water in the microwave and get a tea bag out of the cabinet.
“Yeah.” In her pajamas, with her round face, big eyes, and blondish ponytail, she looks like an oversize five-year-old. She doesn’t say anything else. Ivy’s not a big conversationalist.
The toaster clicks, and by the time my tea is ready, Ivy is installed at the table, a Pop-Tart on a plate, a glass of cold milk at its side. She’s got her iPad in front of her, and she’s doing something on it—probably playing a game. I open my laptop to work on an English paper, and the two of us fall into companionable silence.
There are footsteps in the hallway and then Ron’s in the doorway, filling it up with his broad shoulders. He’s wearing his after-work uniform: sweatpants and a T-shirt with sleeves short enough to show his bulging biceps.
Ron’s beefy without being cut. His face is heavy, especially down at the jaw and chin, but he wears his light brown hair on the longer side in front, so he can thrust the mass of it back with his fingers—it’s a ridiculously youthful gesture for someone edging toward sixty, and I’m convinced he practices it in front of the mirror.
My mother married him over a year ago. He still feels like an intruder in our house. I don’t think he’ll ever not feel like one.
“Hey, there!” he says with unconvincing geniality. “Look at you two girls, working away! I’m going to assume you’re doing homework and not messaging boys.” He crosses to the refrigerator. “Your mom’s thirsty, and as usual, I’m waiting on her hand and foot.” He snaps his enormous hand like he’s got a whip in it. “Coosh-oo! She orders, and I obey.”
Neither of us responds. He grabs a half-empty bottle of wine from the fridge and two glasses from the cabinet. He’s heading back out when he notices the plate in front of Ivy.
“What’s that you’ve got there?”
“Pop-Tart.”
He sighs. “Oh, Ivy,” he says in the overly gentle tone he always uses with her. “We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? About making better choices? About eating to fuel our bodies and not just because we’re bored?” Ron’s always trying to micromanage Ivy’s diet. He acts like it’s all about her health, but I eat just as much junk as she does and he never says anything to me about it, because I’m thinner than she is. Not that Ivy’s fat, exactly, just kind of solid. She’ll never be a supermodel, but that’s not exactly her destiny anyway, so who cares?
Other than Ron, I mean.
“I was hungry,” she says.
“Were you?” Ron says. “Were you really hungry? Because you ate quite a bit at dinner tonight. Quite a bit.” He leans against the side of the doorway, wineglass stems threaded through the fingers of one hand, bottle in the other. There’s a scar on the side of that hand—he claims he cut it as a teenager working in a lab one summer, but I bet it was from a broken beer bottle. He acts all cultured now, but I’m convinced he was a total bro back in the day. Probably beat up all the nerdy kids and high-fived his friends afterward. “A lot of what you ate was carbohydrates—potatoes and bread. You didn’t touch your salad.”
“It had peppers in it.” She appeals to me. “I don’t like peppers, right, Chloe?”
“No one does.”
“Chloe,” Ron says. “Don’t.” His voice tightens when he talks to me, but I prefer that to the patronizing tone he uses with my sister. Which he now slips back into. “You don’t have to finish that, Ivy. We can wrap it up, and you can have the rest for breakfast tomorrow. Or we can just throw it out—processed food like this belongs in the trash anyway, as far as I’m concerned.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Don’t tell her whether or not she’s hungry,” I say. “It’s her body.”
“Can you just stop?” he snaps at me. “I’m trying to help her out here.” He flashes a strained smile in her direction. “I want to keep our sweet Ivy healthy.”
“Her health is fine,” I say, because it is—Ivy never gets sick. “You’re the one with high cholesterol. Worry about yourself. You really need that wine? Lot of calories in wine, you know.” I deliberately eye his waist—he’s always complaining to my mom that no matter how many sit-ups he does, he can’t get back to a size twenty-eight, so I know he’s self-conscious about it.
Ron stands up straighter, sucking in his stomach—it’s the kind of thing people do when you stare at their love handles. “When I want your advice, Chloe, I’ll ask for it. Bu
t don’t hold your breath.” He turns back to Ivy. “You could be so pretty,” he says. “I mean, you are so pretty. You don’t want to go and mess that up by eating so much junk food you get fat and pimply, do you? Don’t you want a boyfriend one day? And a husband? My mother got married when she was younger than you! Doesn’t that blow your mind?”
“I know,” Ivy says. “She was nineteen when she got married, and your father was twenty-three. You were born two years later in 1961. Mom was born in 1972. She’s eleven years younger than you.”
For a moment he blinks at her, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of accurate information she’s just thrown at him. Then he recovers. “Yeah, well . . . good. It’s good you remember. My point is you’re old enough to be thinking about boys and to care about how you look. Like Chloe.” He jerks his chin at me. “She always looks nice. I’ll give her that.”
I stifle a sarcastic retort—I don’t want to prolong this.
“Chloe’s really pretty,” Ivy says.
“So are you,” says Ron. “But you won’t be if you keep eating junk.”
She considers that, and while she considers it, she absently picks up the Pop-Tart and takes another bite of it.
“Stop eating that!” he says. “You’re not listening to me.”
“I am listening.”
It would be funny if I thought Ivy was deliberately provoking him. But Ivy doesn’t do stuff like that. All she wants is to eat her stupid Pop-Tart in peace.
“What’s going on in here?” It’s Mom, coming up behind Ron. Her hair is styled and she’s wearing makeup—she’s Ron’s receptionist, and he likes her to look “put together” for the office—but she changed when she got home and the T-shirt and sweats make her mascaraed eyes and curls look ridiculous. I don’t like when she wears that much makeup, anyway—it settles into every crease and makes her face look older than it is. Without it, she’s pretty, with big, wistful blue eyes and a small nose and mouth. She and Ivy look a lot alike.
Mom says, “What’s a girl got to do to get a glass of wine around here?”
“I was on my way.” Ron holds up the bottle and glasses. “But the girls and I started talking.”
Her eyes flicker from face to face, gauging the moods of everyone in the room. She says, a little too brightly, “I sound like the worst kind of mother, don’t I? Stop talking to my kids and bring me my wine!” She forces a girly laugh, then gives me a vaguely pleading look. I glance away and notice that Ivy has taken advantage of the distraction to quickly cram the rest of the Pop-Tart into her mouth. You go, Ivy.
“It’s okay,” Ron says to Mom. “I’ve exhausted my parenting skills for the evening anyway. These girls of yours . . .” He leaves it at that and steers her back into the hallway, where she tosses out another giggle-laugh.
She never used to laugh like that. She used to have this rare deep chuckle that often ended in a sigh. Nothing girlish about it at all. But a lot’s changed since she met Ron and even more since the day she told us she was going to marry him, “because you girls need a father.”
I said, “No, we don’t, and even to say that is an insult to lesbian parents everywhere,” which at least got her to stop saying it, but did nothing to prevent her from going ahead and marrying Ron, a guy she had met through some online dating site and whose profile she had first clicked on because a) she thought he was handsome (meh) and b) he said he didn’t have kids of his own and regretted it. (He’d been married once and divorced.)
Mom came back from their first date dazed and ecstatic. Things moved quickly after that. I think Ron must have liked how pliable she was, how willing to follow his lead when it came to exercise and diet—and raising kids, even though he had no experience in that last area. And Mom definitely liked having someone around to direct her. She’s never liked to be in charge of anything.
The thing about Mom is that she’s the kind of needy that makes people want to do stuff for her, not the kind that repels them. Ron was basically her white knight, charging in to fix her life for her. But I’m not so crazy about being a part of her life that he thinks needs fixing. And I’m even less crazy about watching him pick apart Ivy, who doesn’t have any anger or malice in her and so can’t defend herself against his attacks.
I’m her younger sister, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel like I needed to protect and take care of her.
Two
MS. CAMPANELLI TAKES her job very seriously. “I mean, fine,” Sarah said to me at the beginning of the school year. “You like books? You like talking about them? Go ahead and become an English teacher. That’s great. But don’t expect everyone else to get as excited as you about Shakespeare or whatever. Have some perspective. People have lives.”
“She doesn’t,” I said. “I’m assuming. Given the way she dresses.”
But even though I make fun of her, I kind of love Ms. Campanelli and the way every class she teaches veers off into whatever tangent interests us the most. We’ll start off recapping the last few chapters of Wuthering Heights, and then a kid will say he thought the whole book was totally incestuous, and the next thing you know, we’ll be deep into a discussion about whether it’s okay to think your cousin is hot, and how the ancient rulers all married their own sisters, and stuff like that.
During these discussions, Ms. Campanelli (we call her “Camp” when she can’t hear us) gets more and more excited, running her hands through her wildly wavy hair until it stands out like a mane around her head, tugging at her long boho skirt until it’s so twisted that the side pocket is over her crotch, pleading with us to raise our hands and not just shout out. But you can tell she doesn’t really mind—she’s just happy we’re all into the conversation, and the truth is that most of the time she’s shouting over everyone else just as much as the rest of us. In any other classroom, we’d all be secretly checking our texts under our desks, but we pay attention in English.
Anyway, today it’s all about Romeo and Juliet. The usual complaints are made—Shakespeare’s boring; he uses way too much imagery; the story’s over the top; half the words are made up, etc., etc.—and Ms. Campanelli duly notes them and moves on. She asks us to describe Romeo in our own words. “What if he were a student at this school? What group would he be in? Who would he date?”
Sarah raises her hand, and Camp calls on her. “Everyone would want to date him,” she says. “He’s, like, perfect boyfriend material—”
“Oh, please,” David Fields snorts. “He’s an idiot.”
Figures. David only talks in class to attack what someone else has said. Otherwise, he ignores the discussion and spends the class surfing the web on his computer. People say that he gets such good grades that all the teachers let him do whatever he wants.
David has one of those bland faces that would get him off for murder because not a single eyewitness would be able to describe him. They’d all be saying stuff like, “Oh, you know . . . hair that’s kind of brown . . . not that straight, but not curly either . . . His nose? Just kind of normal, I guess . . . Dark eyes, probably brown . . . Average size . . .” Meanwhile he’d be off killing a bunch more innocents. And they’d come interview everyone at our school, and we’d all be, like, “Yeah, I’m not surprised. Guy was weird.”
“Has anyone here actually read the play?” he says. “The guy’s a flake, falling in and out of love with any girl who crosses his path. If he and Juliet hadn’t died, he’d have moved on to someone else the second the excitement was gone. Only a moron would find that romantic.”
“Hey, watch it,” James growls—defending Sarah because she’s my best friend and he’s a good guy. James is tall and broad-shouldered and dark-haired and blue-eyed—he basically looks like Clark Kent when he takes off his glasses just before he turns into Superman. Everyone at school is either in awe of him or in love with him, but he’s my boyfriend.
David ignores the growl. “Shakespeare’s making fun of lame teenagers who convince themselves that lust is love.
” He deliberately glances at me and James and then raises a hand to his lips with comically exaggerated embarrassment. “Oh, dear . . . I hope I didn’t offend anyone in this room.”
“We should give David a break,” I say, addressing Ms. Camp, but making sure everyone can hear me. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t get it. I mean, he doesn’t get It. Ever.” Lots of laughter at that—the crowd’s on my side.
“Oh, gee,” David retorts. “I’ve missed out on all the delights of a public high school relationship. What will I have to cringe about in my old age?”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“I think,” Ms. Camp says with an edge of desperation, “that we’ve lost track of our discussion.”
“No, it’s good,” I say. “It’s like Shakespeare’s come alive for us.”
“Really?” she says hopefully.
“Definitely,” I assure her with my sweetest smile.
James drives me home from school like he always does if he has time. Otherwise, I have to take the bus or walk—it’s about a mile, which isn’t too bad unless you have a heavy backpack and it’s, like, eighty-five degrees out . . . which is most of the time in LA.
I invite him to come in, but he says he has to go to soccer practice. I pout and tell him he’s no fun.
“You’re a bad influence,” he says. “I’m late every time I drop you off, and Coach is threatening to bench me for the next game if I’m late again.”
“Oh, please. You’re his best player—he’s never going to make you sit out.”
“Yeah,” James says with the slow twitchy grin that was the first thing I noticed about him and which still sends a thrill through my body. “I know. Give me a goodbye kiss?” He holds out his arms, and I wriggle out of my seat belt and across the gearshift into his lap, where I do some more wriggling and try to change his mind about coming upstairs with me.
I know I’ve succeeded when his breath turns ragged and uneven.
“All right, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll go in with you. But I can’t stay longer than five minutes, Chloe. I mean it.”