Stewart Lewis - You Have Seven Messages

I may be fourteen, but I read the New York Times. I don�t wear hair clips or paint my cell phone with nail polish, and I�m not boy crazy. I don�t have a subscription to Twist or Bop or Flop or whatever they call those glossy magazines full of posters of shiny-haired, full-lipped hunks.

Whatever you do, don�t call me a tween. That makes me feel like I�m trapped in some adolescent purgatory where I get force-fed Disney-themed cupcakes while watching Hannah Montana reruns�that stage is over. Who came up with that name, anyway? I bet the person who came up with the name Hannah Montana gets paid a quarter of a million dollars a year and drives a Lexus. My cousin could�ve come up with a better name, and she�s five and rides a tricycle.

I grew up in Manhattan on the Upper West Side, and when I was really little, I thought my driver was my father. He�d take me to school every day and make sure my shoelaces were tied. Sometimes he�d let me listen to NPR while he chatted with the doormen. He seemed to know them all, a secret society of men in pressed black coats standing as straight as the buildings they protected. But of course, he wasn�t my father. My real father is a film director who was at the height of his career when I was born, which is why he was never around. He was always shooting in places like Africa, Japan, Australia, and Canada. Now some critics say he�s washed up, but I think the reason people become film critics is because they failed to be film directors themselves. I don�t usually feel famous myself, but I went to the premiere of his last film (the one that supposedly washed him up) and a couple months later there was a picture of us in Vanity Fair. My overenthusiastic English teacher, Ms. Gray, cut out the picture and taped it to the whiteboard. At first I was thrilled, but then I felt weird about it. I ended up sneaking in after class and bending the page so that you could only see my father, with his shiny face, his jet-black hair, and those wire-thin glasses that always seem to be sliding off his nose. He�s the one who should be recognized. He literally spends years putting actors, writers, cinematographers, editors, studios, and locations all in a big blender until his movies pour out smoothly onto the screen. All I did that evening was walk next to him and carry the cheat sheet for his speech.

My little brother, Tile, was too young to come to the premiere with us or have his photo taken. When my mom was pregnant with him, the only thing that helped her nausea was lying on the cold Spanish tile in our townhouse bathroom, so that became his name. Everyone calls him Kyle by mistake.

My uncle, a professor who lives in Italy, gave me a small book of Shakespeare�s sonnets for my tenth birthday, and sometimes I read Tile my favorite ones. Even though he�s ten, he pretends to understand them. I think he just likes the musical way the words go together. Tile is a good listener, and he leaves me alone pretty much every time I ask him to. If a genie said I could wish for any little brother in the whole world, I would stick with Tile. He smells nice and never talks with his mouth full. He also keeps my secrets.

Here�s one: I know I told you that I�m not boy crazy, mostly because boys are dirty and unpredictable, but there is one I�ve had my eye on since I was eight. He is very clean. He lives across the street and our drivers are friends. He goes to a school somewhere outside the city. I like to imagine it�s an exotic place like Barbados, but it�s probably in Westchester. He�s only said ten words to me in seven years. Sometimes when I read Shakespeare�s sonnets I think of his big mop of strawberry curls, and the way he swings his book bag in wide circles.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life

,

Or as sweet-season�d showers are to the ground

He�s one year older than me, and his name is Oliver. He walks with a peculiar grace, almost like he�s floating. He also plays the cello, and he�s so good at it that when I listen to him through my bedroom window, the tiny hairs on my arms stick up.

Sometimes I lie on my bed imagining the music was written just for me, coming in through the window as a personal serenade. Music sounds better when you close your eyes.

CHAPTER 2

THEN THERE WERE THREE

Tile and I are on spring break, so on our driver�s day off, we take the subway to the zoo in the Bronx. I love to look at all the different kinds of people on the train and try to eavesdrop on their thoughts for just a minute. I notice Tile�s feet hanging off the seat, not able to touch the ground. My feet have touched the ground since I was six. People think it�s great to be tall, but it�s not when you�re a young girl. Once when I tried talking to some boys at our school dance I had to crouch down like I was their Little League coach.

The train makes a loud screeching noise and Tile inches closer to my dad. This might be the first time we are actually going on an outing as a family of three. I uncurl my fingers and look down at my hands. They are my mother�s, thin and delicate. I think of the last line from the poem that is stenciled onto the wall in my father�s office: nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands. Maybe what the author meant is that every person is completely unique. Every raindrop, every pair of hands, everyone on this train.

When my father came to my camp in New Hampshire almost a year ago in the middle of the summer, I knew something was terribly wrong. I was sailing on the lake, but suddenly I saw him on the dock, looking out over the water and wearing his light blue Windbreaker. He was supposed to have been in Scotland shooting a movie. When I saw the camp director next to him, waving frantically to my counselor to sail back, I really knew something wasn�t right. When we reached the dock and I jumped from the boat, my father kneeled down and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. He cried into my hair.

Your mother is gone and she�s never coming back.

The words caught in his throat, and it was a voice I had never heard come out of him. I instantly knew he meant gone, as in forever. That she hadn�t simply run away or skipped town.

�What?�

�It was an accident. In the city. She got hit.��

I wanted to slap him across the face. How could he tell me this? How could my mother, so vibrant and alive, just suddenly be gone? Accidents happened in Manhattan every day�but not to my mother. Everything suddenly felt terribly unfair. I looked up at the trees surrounding the lake, the wispy clouds slowly becoming drained of color.

�Do you think she�s in the sky or in the ground?� I asked him.

I thought he said �Both,� but it might have been �Oh.�

I couldn�t cry. I remember looking at my own reflection in the water, thinking of Narcissus, who died falling in love with his own reflection. I could�ve died right there, because the thought of living without someone you love is like a pair of giant hands pressing around your heart, making it smaller and smaller, until you are left with only a memory of warmth. It�s like when the sun comes through a window, moving across the room with each hour, until night falls and all you can do is try to remember the soothing shapes it made.

CHAPTER 3

TRUTH

The whole way back from the zoo I feel like people are whispering about my dad. I want to tell them to mind their own business. When tragedy happens to people who are famous, it is treated more like a scandal�what people don�t realize is yes, my dad made some pretty iconic movies, but deep down he is vulnerable just like everyone else.

My mother once told me that the truth is like my skin, a beautiful, protective covering, and the things people say or think are like clothes that can be easily changed or discarded. She told me truth comes from your heart.

When I was ten, there was a rumor spread about my father and an underage actress he had never even met. School turned into pure hell, and everyone shunned me. It was amazing how much venom people had, like a tabloid was even trustworthy.

One morning my mother marched into my PE class and didn�t even bother telling the teacher she was taking me. She just gave her the Look, as she did into so many cameras all over the world: Don�t mess with me. She didn�t tell me where we were going until we got there, two hours later. It was her friend�s old house on the Hudson River, with screened-in porches that had antique beds on them. He was a chef, and he made us macaroni and cheese with shaved truffles. She�d pulled strings with the AV guy at my school, who she knew from a shoot long before, and got him to hunt down and fax all my homework assignments. It was her way of helping me deal with the rumor thing: home school for a week. I loved it, even though I missed Tile. He was so cute at that time, a little nugget.

On our last night there was tons of moonlight and we had ice cream on the porch. It was the kind of moment where you remember every detail. Mint chocolate chip. Three boats, one called Seas the Day. It was there, in front of the glassy river so bright it could have been a mirror, that my mother told me about truth.

�But how do you really know what�s true? Is there some big book of truth?�

She laughed. When my mother laughed she looked like an angel, that�s what my father always said. Her big eyes looked up, squinting a little, and she would slightly shake her head, like a happy dog.

�The book is in here.� She placed her hand where my heart is.

�Yes, but why do people just make things up?�

�Usually because they are bored, or insecure. There was this gossip website that used to print all this stuff about me. At first I was really angry, you know, like you probably were with those kids. Then, I remember going to an opening gala, I think it was for a fragrance of some kind���anyway, there were all these celebrities there, and none of them looked at me strange or had even bought into the rumors. And I realized that all of them had lies written about them all the time, but they were above it, you know? They were secure in who they were.�

�What do you mean?�

She turned toward me and ran her fingers down the side of my face.

�Do you remember the time you wanted to wear that green hat, the one that was too big for you, that you found on one of your father�s sets?�

�Yes.�

�We tried to get you to rethink wearing it to school, but when we dropped you off, you owned it. You walked with confidence. That is being secure.�

�Well, more like stupid.�

She laughed again, and the angel came through her. Then she put on her serious face and said, �No choice is stupid if it comes from you. And you, you are���you are the most beautiful girl in the whole world, inside and out. Never let anyone take away the choices in your heart; it�s what makes you one of a kind.�

She had lost me a little, but I got the idea.

�I mean, if you want to look like Kermit the Frog, go for it!�

This time I laughed. Then I heard a car crunching down the gravel driveway. It was our driver. I remember running up with Mom because I thought it might be Tile, but it was my father coming up from the city to surprise us. He had stolen away from his film set to visit for the night. He had a large bouquet of flowers for Mom and a huge lollipop for me. I grabbed the lollipop and went to the hammock.

The stars were like a million fireflies, and I remember feeling so safe, like nothing could ever touch me. I looked inside and all the lights were on. My father was coaxing my mother out of the kitchen chair, and they started to dance. My father looked like a boy, and he had so much hope, so much wonder in his eyes, that I secretly wished someone like him would love me someday.

CHAPTER 4

THE NEXT STEP

The zoo is crowded today, and the animals look really bored. But no matter how many people stare at them, they don�t act vain. Kind of like my mother. She was a model, but not really because she liked to be looked at. It was a way for her to make a lot of money in a little time, so she could do what she really wanted to do�write. Her book was optioned by my father, which was how they met. My father claimed she wanted nothing to do with him at first. Even after the movie was made, she barely took his calls. It wasn�t until they ran into each other years later at a party for Paper magazine that my dad spotted her across the room, and decided then and there he would stop at nothing to win her over. He sent her flowers every day for a month.

Seeing my father now, spilling his sno-cone while the depressed lions pace around, I feel a sharp sadness for him. Things weren�t supposed to turn out this way. As Tile runs his fingers through the water fountain that doesn�t turn off, I brush the tiny pieces of crushed blue ice off Dad�s button-down shirt.

After getting home from camp�that horrible day on the dock�my father and I didn�t really know how to grieve. We didn�t talk much, but we took comfort in each other, and we still do, now more than ever.

�It�s been almost a year since Mom died, you know.�

�Really?� he says, pushing up his glasses.

�Don�t you think you should maybe try and date someone?� Saying the words makes me feel horrible, like I�m betraying my own mother. But somehow I know I�m right, and maybe it�s what she would�ve wanted.

�Funny you should mention that.� He holds up a finger and touches my cheek with it. �I have a date on Tuesday.�

�You do?� Now I wish I hadn�t said anything. Now I want to build a brick wall around my father�s heart.

�Not even sure what I�m going to do.�

�Be yourself,� I offer. �What�s her name?�

He tilts the sno-cone up to swallow the last bit, then crumples the paper in his hand. As we walk toward the monkeys, he starts to laugh. �I don�t remember���something with an E���Ella?�

I realize it�s the first time I�ve heard my father laugh in a year. I desperately want him to forget someone else�s name.

�Well, you should maybe figure that out before the date.�

His broad smile gives me hope. Maybe the E-word will be funny and kind and strong like my mother was. Or maybe she�ll just want to be in one of his movies, which would be even sadder than seeing drugged-up lions in a cage.

The bird sanctuary is unimpressive. Underneath the white canopy, they can barely fly. I prefer birds in real life. Once when I was at camp I saw four loons flying across the lake together, and they were so smooth and effortless. The sunset looked like a giant wound in the sky and I could see their reflections, silhouettes on the water�s surface. All at once they landed with a flourish, as if choreographed, perfectly calculated.

My father buys Tile a big paper eagle at the gift store and we leave the zoo and go to a cafg breath and stretch my legs onto the empty seat. This is the problem, though. Right when I start to feel like everything�s going to be all right, I�m reminded in some way that my mother isn�t here, sitting in this empty seat that my feet rest on. We�re not a complete unit, like the loons.

�Moon, don�t put your feet up on that.�

My father calls me Moon because it was my first word. Apparently they would take me onto the roof when I was a baby to see the moon every night before bed, and if it wasn�t there I�d cry myself to sleep.

I take my feet down and wipe the chair with my napkin. As we eat our meal I keep turning to the empty seat, expecting to see Mom�s long eyelashes, her curvy nose, her fragile hands.

On the subway home, I think about writing a letter to Oliver. If I could write something as beautiful as the music he plays, maybe we�d be destined to be together. Even though I know from experience that life is not a romantic comedy, something about his curly hair, his fluid walk, and his cello playing makes me feel like the girl walking down the street during the opening credits.

CHAPTER 5

PIED-

On Thursday, garbage day, the trucks sound like distant monsters screaming their terrible sounds. I wake up at the first high-pitched squeal, roll out of bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. There�s no pen or pad, so I write on toilet paper with an eyeliner pencil:

There once was a boy with impossible curls

Watched from afar by a curious girl

Listening through the open window

She pictured his hands gripping the bow

Making the deepest sound she ever heard

Nothing that could ever be described by a word

The bathroom door opens, and Tile walks in rubbing his eyes, his hair in disarray. He takes the poem out of my hand and reads it, then makes a noise that hints of approval. He�s my perfect audience. I grab it back and leave so he can pee in private.

Today�s the day I�ve decided to go to my mother�s studio, which has basically been untouched since she died. I feel like there may be something there that will bring me closer to her. On the way to school I have our driver go past it, to get a picture of it in my mind, so I can mentally prepare throughout the day. It�s on the top floor of a skinny brownstone near the park. Since two of the walls are glass, it resembles an urban greenhouse. It�s small but has a lot of charm, as real estate people say. My father went there once a few weeks after she died, but he couldn�t bring himself to move anything. To this day, the place remains as my mother left it, and none of us has gone in there.

It�s �green� week at school, so everyone is acting like they care about our environment. After the week is over most people will go back to using Styrofoam cups, driving massive SUVs to the Hamptons, and letting the water run while they brush their teeth. But it�s nice to raise awareness, and I�m trying to be a half-full instead of a half-empty girl.

My dad�s not there when I get home from school, so I go into his office and search the key drawer. At the bottom is a large key with a piece of masking tape stuck to it, the word studio written with a red Sharpie. My heart pinches at the sight of my mother�s wavy handwriting. I stare at the key in my open hand for a minute and then curl my fingers around it.

My neighbor smiles at me when I walk by. I�m allowed to go out alone as long as it�s light out. It takes me fifteen minutes, and when I get to the front of the brownstone I realize I�m sweating. I take a deep breath and start to climb the steps.

I don�t take the elevator because it�s the size of a phone booth. On the landing of the fourth floor, I pass a cleaning lady who�s listening to one of those old Walkmans that play cassettes.� Does anyone have those anymore? She grins and puts her hand on my shoulder. Even though she seems supernice, I cannot wait for the day when people stop petting me like I�m an animal.

I get to the door, which says 6b but the b is broken and hangs down to look like a q. I slowly turn the key and push the door open.

The first thing I see is what might have been an apple in a big silver bowl. Now it looks more like a prune with a green blanket of mold wrapped around it, half eaten by bugs. I open the window and then dump the decomposed apple in the garbage, then go to the fridge. I am relieved to find there�s nothing in it except some condiments and a bottle of white wine. I go back down to the cleaning lady and ask her if I can borrow some rags and her Windex. She doesn�t understand English, but I show her what I need, like a charade, and she smiles and hands me the bottle, a rag, and a feather duster. I spend the next hour cleaning the half inch of dust covering everything. I open Mom�s laptop and am taken aback by the screen saver. It�s a picture of me on the beach in Nantucket. I�m not smiling. I look cold and annoyed, but my gaze is sharp.

A large tear goes splat on the keyboard.

The bedroom alcove is the size of a closet but has lots of light. I try to smell her in the crumpled sheets, but they�re old and musty. I peel them off quickly and pile them in the corner. I see a black cord peeking from her desk drawer. I pull it out and take in a shallow breath. It�s her cell phone, the charger still attached. I plug it in to see if it still works, amazed at the sound of it booting up. I guess my father didn�t even bother canceling her service. Maybe it was a family plan and he wanted to keep it that way. She wasn�t one of those people who always had her cell phone on her�it took her forever to even get one. I go down her list of contacts and stop at Marc Jacobs. When I was nine, I actually had tea in Paris with him. My mother was a fashion model, and one day when she went on a �go-see� for French Vogue she left me with Marc at a caft goes straight to his voice mail and I don�t leave a message. I am too stunned that I am in my mother�s studio, calling Marc Jacobs, a trail of big tears drying on my face.

I decide to take a shower in the tiny black-and-white-tiled bathroom. I watch the dust from the tub swirl down the drain and think, That�s what she is now. I dry off and get dressed again, collapsing on the naked mattress. I briefly think of what it would be like to bring Oliver here. Maybe he could play the cello while I made him baked salmon. A few days after my mother died I found a recipe in the newspaper for baked salmon, and I made it for my father, along with asparagus, his favorite vegetable. When he came home and saw me with the apron that went all the way to the floor, my face sweaty from the steam, he started to cry. Seeing a grown man cry is heartbreaking but also beautiful. We hardly put a dent in the salmon, but what we ate tasted good.

I turn my head and see something that makes my throat tighten: a cuff link on the nightstand, made to look like a sad theater mask. What is it doing here? I pick it up and blow the dust off it. As far as I know, the only cuff links my dad has are the ones that look like little rope knots. Besides, this is not the sort of thing he would wear. I look underneath the bed for the happy face, but there�s nothing there except more dust and a stray button.

Hmmmm. I run the cuff link through my fingers, like it�s a key to some language I�m not sure I want to learn. My mother never mentioned entertaining guests at her studio�it was her own private space. But somebody was here. Somebody who was not my father.

I remember one day in eighth grade I skipped soccer practice and came home early and went up to my mother�s room. We had a ritual where we�d sit on the bed and I�d tell her everything that happened that day. Even when the details of the day were boring, she would find ways to make them exciting. Like when I told her I had a math test and ate chicken tenders for lunch she explained that math was a way to get your mind to think a certain way, and even though it seems tedious, it�s the basis for everything in the world. Then she�d tell me that chickens lose their feathers when they get stressed. Basically, my mother could weave a colorful conversation out of a pile of dirt. That day I actually had something kind of exciting to tell her�we had a bomb threat, and my science teacher brought his dog in for an experiment, and it got so excited that it peed on his desk, which was hilarious�but she was in the bath, not expecting me so early. She was talking to someone on the phone in a honeyed tone that made me feel like I shouldn�t be eavesdropping. Still, I listened. It was almost like she was singing.

As I turn the cuff link over in my hand, the memory lodges itself in the bottom of my stomach like an undercooked pancake. Could the person she was talking to that day be the owner? I had an inkling there was more to learn about her death, but this was not what I had in mind.

Back in the living room, the air is starting to freshen up since I opened the small window in the bathroom for cross-ventilation. I go back to the computer and look at the folders on her desktop. One says �Stuff� and one says �Modeling.� In the bottom corner, another says �Luna,� her version of my nickname, and basically what everyone calls me. In fact, the only person who calls me Malia, my real name, is the school nurse. I look at the folder again, and I cannot bring myself to double-click on it. It�s probably just pictures and stuff, but there are so many emotions coursing through me that I can almost feel my brain uncurling like a flower blooming on fast-forward video. I look outside and notice it�s almost dark. I shut down the laptop, close the window, grab the trash along with the duster and the Windex, and head down the stairs. The woman is still there. I place the stuff neatly on the floor and say �Gracias,� and she smiles. One of the things I learned from my father is if you use words from other people�s languages it makes them smile. Whenever we go to my favorite Thai place near Times Square, I always say �kop khun kha� to the waitress when she serves our food, and she gives me an extra Coke on the house.

On the way home I stop and buy peanuts. Chewing them helps distract me from the questions that flutter around my mind like frantic insects. Who is the owner of the cuff link? What�s in my folder?

As I reach Central Park West, I am startled by a buzz in my pocket. Mom�s phone! I open it up and the screen reads, 7 new messages. As if it�s a bomb that might go off, I quickly turn it off and head into our building.

I go upstairs and lock the door to my room. I look at the phone again and think, This is a dead person�s phone.

My mother was very open with me, but her personal life was just that: personal. Would she want me to have this? Who are the messages from? I squeeze the stress ball Dad gave me and think about this past year, how much I have been through, how much I have lost. In order to preserve my sanity, I cannot listen to the messages right away, and if I do, maybe only one at a time. Maybe I�m just being dramatic, but something about finding the cuff link has made me question what was really going on in my mother�s life.

I try to focus on my homework but before long I hear Oliver practicing. I go over to the window and stare across the street. The angle only allows me to see a corner of his cello, and the tip of the bow if he holds a long note. I put my mother�s phone under the mattress and lie down.

When adults use the word overwhelmed, I always think it�s just an excuse to get attention, but now I understand what it means. I decide to close my eyes and just listen to Oliver. I take deep breaths and try to let the music seep through my skin, into my bones. It�s a trick my drama teacher told us about, for relaxation. It works for a while, but then all I can picture is the little red phone, shoved under the mattress, and I imagine it pulsing like a heartbeat.

CHAPTER 6

I DARE YOU

I don�t tell anyone I�ve been to the studio. It�s my secret. Today is crystal clear and everyone in New York seems to carry the promise of spring in their waving hands, their scooping arms, and their buoyant steps. I walk deep into the park and find a bench in the shade. I get out Mom�s phone and dial her voice mail. It asks for a password. Damn.

I�m clutching the phone so hard my knuckles are white. I try her birth date. No luck. Then I try our address. Nope. I sit back and look up at the expanse of blue sky with one small lonely cloud. I think of my dad, who would say, �Look, a storm�s coming in.� And then it appears in my vision. A little obscured by a giant tree, looking like a withered white balloon.

I type in luna and the voice says, �You have seven messages. To listen to your messages, press one.�

My fingers are shaking. I tell myself, One at a time. That way it won�t all come crashing down on me. I do what the voice tells me.

Beep.

I can hardly understand the thick Asian accent, but at the end she says the word pickup, so I figure it�s Mom�s dry-cleaning place. I hit 7 for Delete and head to Seventy-Sixth Street. Or is it Seventy-Seventh? I remember they had terrible candies in a bowl. One day my mother got mad at me for spitting one out on someone�s stoop. She said it wasn�t ladylike.

I recognize the small blue awning and go inside. Sure enough, the candies are still there. There�s a Chinese girl, maybe sixteen, who gives me a challenging look. I�m not exactly sure why I�ve come here. Surely they don�t still have her clothes?

I stutter a few times until the mother comes in and recognizes me, gives me that look of pity I�m so tired of. She must have heard about my mother�s death from the neighborhood women gossiping. Or maybe she reads Page Six, which is doubtful. She has a bob haircut and wears a brown cardigan. Her fingers are dry and twisted. She holds them up as if telling me to wait. The daughter keeps looking at me, except now with a blank expression. The bell that�s tied to the door rattles and a woman comes in, dressed in a tight black skirt and silver heels. It takes me a second to realize it�s Oliver�s mom. My heartbeat quickens as I see a shadow behind the door, a boy following her in.

I start to take inventory of what I have on. Jeans and a red shirt that�s faded to orange. Oh no, the wrong shoes�they make my feet look too big. I peek over at Oliver, who is swinging his book bag and definitely not noticing my shoes. I see him reach out for a candy and I blurt out a sound to make him stop.

�You really don�t want to eat those,� I whisper.

He looks at me, really, for the first time, and smiles. I feel like my skin is on fire and any moment I will self-combust. His eyelashes are overgrown and his lips are violet. The fluorescent light makes a thin halo around his curls.

In what seems like an hour, the lady comes back with my mother�s dress. She hands it to me along with a bill. Is she going to charge me? I look over at Oliver, who looks at the floor. The lady nods and waves her gnarled fingers again and I turn to leave, but not before giving Oliver my best smile.

I don�t think my mother even owned a pair of shorts�she always wore dresses. When I was little, I would constantly hide under them. The skirt part would become my own personal tent with her smooth, tanned legs as the poles.

When I get home I immediately rip open the plastic, which is lined with paper advertising the cleaners. It�s a black dress, with tiny gold beading along the collar and on the hem. I can�t remember my mother ever wearing it. I try it on and look in the mirror. It�s the most beautiful thing I�ve ever worn. I turn around and go to the window. I can sense someone has been watching me. There�s no one there but the light is on. After a few seconds the light goes off and a figure approaches the window. All I can see is the silhouette of curly hair. I smile and turn around, showing off the dress, and then pull the curtain.

I want to show my father but I don�t want to jog his memory in a bad way. I tiptoe past Tile�s room and see him sleeping on the floor next to his bed. It�s hard to maneuver in the dress but I manage to get him back up and under the covers. Half asleep, he says, �Mom?�

I take a step back and watch him. His nostrils flare a little as if he smells something in a dream. He purses his lips and turns over. I creep down the stairs and stop on the last step, stunned by a female voice I don�t recognize laughing nervously. The E-word!

Before I can turn around and run back up the stairs, they enter the foyer on their way out. The E-word is pretty in a raw, bohemian way. My father stops short at the sight of the dress. I cannot see myself, but I know my face is the color of tomato soup. I realize he�s never seen my mother wearing it.

�Moon,� my father says, �where���what �?�

�I went by the dry cleaner, you know, the one���

Luckily, the E-word breaks the awkward silence and holds out her hand. She has on leather jewelry. �I�m Elise, so nice to meet you.�

�You as well.�

�Going somewhere?� she asks, almost taunting me.

�Yes,� I say, �I�m just gonna go crawl under a rock. You have a nice night, both of you.� I try to give my father a go-for-it look as they smile and walk past. I notice a tag hanging down the back of his jacket and it takes me two tugs to rip it off. When I get back to my room I peer out the window down to the street. They are standing very close, waiting for a cab. I go to my bed and sit down.

She smelled nice, what was it���apricot?

I take off the dress and put on my nightshirt. It�s really hard to concentrate on homework, but I try. All I keep thinking about is Oliver, the way he finally saw me at the dry cleaner. Does he know I�ve been watching him or that I listen to him practice? Then I think about my mother�s phone, six more messages. I decide to wait until tomorrow. The scene on the stairs was traumatic enough.

As I get into bed, I wonder what Dad and Elise are doing on their date. Elise reminds me of my camp counselor, Willow, who always looked glassy-eyed and wore a half smile. She was the total opposite of my mom, whose eyes were always alert, almost startled, and whose mouth was always slightly pursed. I have that mouth too. It�s kind of a pain because people sometimes think I�m frowning when I�m just thinking. I look up at the picture of my mother, still stuck to my wall with an inch of Scotch tape. It came from one of those huge glossy magazines they put in hotels. She�s wearing a shiny dress with a furry collar and her look says I dare you.

CHAPTER 7

MOON OVER BROOKLYN

It�s spring break, and my father has finally finished his documentary, so while Tile watches cartoons, we eat the one thing Dad likes to make�french toast.

�Why did you go to the dry cleaner?� he says, lips shiny with syrup.

I try to fill my mouth with food quickly so I can think of a response.

�Just curious, I guess.�

He stops chewing and gives me a look I cannot decipher, then takes another bite.

�How was your date?� I say, changing the subject.

�It was���fine,� he replies.

My father has always been hard to read. He gives you what he wants to give and nothing more.

�Is she a pot dealer?�

He laughs. The simple sound of it warms me up.

�She�s a teacher,� he says.

�Let me guess, basket weaving?�

He laughs again, but this time it�s a chuckle. The pot dealer line clearly had more punch.

�She teaches English. She�s nice enough. It�s just���

He doesn�t have to finish the sentence. We both know what he means. It�s hard enough for me to imagine someone taking Mom�s place, but no doubt harder for him. I cut out the center of my french toast, the best bit.

�You know Oliver, from across the street?�

�I�ve seen him around.�

�Hypothetically, if he invited me, do you think I could go listen to him practice the cello?�

He forks in another bite and wipes at each corner of his mouth. �I suppose that would be fine.�

�I�m going to be fifteen in three days.�

�I know, Moon. I�m not that out of it.�

I can tell by his expression that I have room to tease. �No, but for a while there you just wandered around from room to room. I almost called Bellevue.�

He throws his napkin at me but I dodge it just in time.

The truth is, after the accident, I walked around like that too. Tile went to live with my grandmother on Long Island for three months and Dad and I became zombies, living on Thai food and ginger ale. I went through the motions at school, dropping from an A to a C average, and lost my friends, the two Rachels. I�m not even sure why we had remained friends before; it just sort of happened. In fifth grade we won an art project we did together on Valentine�s Day. While all the other kids did these simple cutout hearts with construction paper, we took pictures of all kinds of couples at our parents� dinner parties or in the park. Gay and straight, white and black, young and old, smiling and goofing around. We arranged them in a giant heart and the teacher displayed it for the whole year. The Rachels and I were constantly doing creative things together, and hiding out while our parents had cocktails. Now, Rachel One is a pretty-on-the-outside shell of a girl who spends four hundred dollars a month on her hair and is dating half of Central Park West. Rachel Two is basically mute�she rarely talks and is more like a pretty bag Rachel One carries around. I call them Barbots�part Barbie, part robot. They starve themselves, are addicted to lip gloss, and wear their insecurity on their Prada sleeves. After my mother died, they couldn�t understand why I wasn�t grieving outwardly, why I didn�t seem sad. Rachel One said my behavior was �creepy,� and Rachel Two (in a rare use of words) said that I just didn�t �fit in� anymore. I didn�t really blame them. Some inner mechanism in me shut down and I couldn�t feel anything. They defriended me on Facebook and I didn�t really care.

Now I mostly hang out with Janine �Oscar� Myers�probably �cause we�re both outsiders. Her claim to fame is far more controversial than mine�she made a video for her boyfriend of herself eating a hot dog with suspicious gusto, only to have him plaster it all over the Internet. I actually thought it was funny, but the Gossip Girls at our school (seniors who dress like they�re on the show) held her down in the bathroom and wrote SLUT on her forehead. I tried to help her wash it off but there wasn�t time. She ended up going through the rest of classes with it still faintly there. The Rachels wouldn�t even look at me after I befriended her, but it was just as well. After I lost Mom, their obsession with things like lip gloss and that android Zac Efron seemed completely unimportant.

I pick up our sticky dishes and bring them to the sink. As I turn on the water my dad says, �I�ll do it, Moonlight.�

When he uses that particular variation of my nickname, I can feel his love so strongly it�s almost palpable. There was a long period of time when that word, that tone of his voice, had gone missing, like a favorite pair of earrings you�re not sure how you lost. You feel like they�re in the house somewhere, ready to surprise you at any minute.

�Cool,� I say, and run upstairs. I retrieve the red cell phone and put it in my back pocket. On my way out, my father calls from the sink, �Cello practice already?�

�I wish,� I call back. �Just going for a walk.�

�Okay, please be careful!�

�I�ll find the nearest creepy guy with a van,� I say. He winces as I close the door.

Everyone on the street is still infused with spring. You can see it in their bright clothes, their hopeful faces. I find the nearest stoop that looks out-of-the-way and retrieve message number six. Seeing my father almost normal has given me a sense of calm, and my fingers are not shaking this time.

It�s a man�s deep voice with some sort of accent, Australian, maybe. He calls her �love� and tells her she must �pop over.� He leaves an address in a place called Greenpoint, in Brooklyn.

If my mother�s personal life was once off-limits to me, can it really be now? Why did the dress from the dry cleaner surprise Dad so much? Did it have to do with the owner of the cuff link? I walk through the park to the East Side and get into a cab.

�Forty-Four Eagle Street, Greenpoint.�

The driver looks at me with suspicion.

�Don�t worry, I�ve got plenty of money and I�m allowed to travel alone.�

This seems to work. He throws up his hands and starts the meter.

I�m not sure what I�m really trying to find, but something beyond my control is taking over. I don�t want to bother my father about it, especially since he�s in good spirits, but I need to know more.

Going across the Pulaski Bridge, I can see most of downtown, the buildings strong and proud above the river. I am looking at a city of eight million people, none of them my mother.

Eagle Street looks industrial, with one lone deli on the corner. The building stretches the length of the whole block and looks like it was once a factory. There are several kids on skateboards carrying squirt guns. They must be on spring break too.

I have the cab wait for me and I enter the building. At the far end of the block some hipsters are doing a photo shoot, and there�s trash swirling in the wind. The door has been propped open, so I wander into the stairway, which smells of wax and cigarette smoke. I climb the stairs, gaining adrenaline. Outside 3B, I stand there, mystified.

What am I looking for?

Before I knock, the door opens and a man with a goatee, in a sport coat, smiles at me as I jump back.

�Can I help you?�

It�s the same accent. The deep voice. I stand there, until words somehow find their way out of my mouth. �Did you know Marion Clover?�

The man pauses, his mouth open a little, then looks at me suspiciously, like I may be dangerous.

�Yes, of course, why do you ask?�

�She was my mother.�

His face melts a little, as if he might cry; then he sweeps his arm into the space and says, �Why don�t you come in.�

The place is vast and uncluttered. The old windows have dozens of little panes the size of paperbacks, and through them you can see the entire Manhattan skyline. He removes a cowboy hat from a big green chair and says, �Here, sit.�

I sit down gently. I notice he is wearing an old T-shirt and jeans. He doesn�t seem to be someone who regularly wears cuff links, but I can�t be sure.

�Luna, right?�

For some reason hearing him say my mom�s version of my nickname, and what has basically become my real name, makes me want to cry. I nod slowly and try to regain composure.

�I�m Benjamin.�

�From Australia?�

�South Africa.�

Wow, not even close. Looking into Benjamin�s deep-set pale brown eyes, I realize I don�t even know what to ask him. I start with the obvious.

�How did you know my mother?�

�Hang on a minute. Does your pop know you�re here?�

�No. I have a cab waiting, though. I�m not supposed to leave Manhattan, but I can see it right there.� I point to the windows. �Close enough, right?�

�How did you��

�You left a message, on her cell phone. Why did you give this address?�

The door swings open and in walks a woman with legs that probably go up to my ears. She has on a thin, tight sweater and her lipstick is such a dark red it looks like blood. In fact, she is rolling the lipstick case through her hands. She looks at Benjamin for an explanation of my presence. He doesn�t say anything, so she turns to me and says, �Daria.�

�My neighbor,� Benjamin adds.

�Well,� I say, standing up, �I�m sorry to come over unannounced.�

�It�s okay,� he says. �Your mother was my muse for a while. I�m a painter, and a graphic designer. Some of my best work is of her. I can show you. Anyway, she was always saying she wanted to see my new place, and one day she finally agreed to; that�s why I left the message. I am so sorry about what happened.�

Daria slinks onto the couch, staring at Benjamin. The phone rings and he picks it up immediately, like he�s desperately awaiting the call.

He�s gone for several minutes, during which Daria stares at me like she�s reading a book. I try to be like my father and show blank pages.

�You lost your mom,� she says with a thick accent. Swedish?

�Yes,� I say.

�So did I. When I was a little younger than you.�

She must be a model. She has overblown features and a languid way of being, like so many of them. �I�m sorry,� I say, even though I usually hate it when people tell me that. Sorry doesn�t bring people back.

�Did you ever think about getting, you know�� She�s pointing to my chest. In order to avoid hearing the words training bra out loud, I cut her off.

�Yes, I have one, I just don�t have it on,� I lie. I cannot bear telling her I�m way late on the whole bra thing. �Did you���did you know my mother?�

�No, but I read her book.� She places the lipstick on the end table. �It was devastatingly accurate.�

�Accurate about what?� I ask.

�The misperception of the general public toward models.�

I think about this. Everyone can be misunderstood, whether you�re a model or not. She could�ve come up with a better remark, but I let it slide.

�She didn�t like models,� I say, even though I�m not really sure. I think she just avoided telling people she was a model.

Daria looks at me intently.

�I bet she loved you.�

I don�t know what to say to this. Of course she did, but I don�t want to brag about it. Then I remember my father saying one should always accept compliments with grace.

�She did.� I smile, noticing a pen and a hotel pad on the table. �Listen, I�m going to leave my email address on this pad, �cause I�ve got to get back to the city. Could you give it to Benjamin? I want to see the work he did with my mother sometime.�

�Of course,� she says, standing up. Her arms are gangly like spider legs, and she smells like Chanel No. 5. I know because it was the only scent my mother wore. She pats me on the head, walks toward the bathroom, and says, �Nice to meet you, sweetie.�

The head patting puts a damper on the adventure. Do I look like I�m five? I write my email and my IM name on the pad, and before I leave, I take the lipstick, open it, and put some on.

The cabbie is still there when I get back outside. Now that I have the lipstick on, he gives me an even stranger look.

On the way back into the city, I think of what I really knew about my mother. I knew her smell, and that she rarely cooked. I remember her big eyes, her angel laugh, her delicate hands. The way she could turn from being playful to completely serious, and how I rarely could get anything past her. I put on my seat belt and roll down the window, letting the air at my face. I close my eyes and remember that tonight is usually when Oliver plays, and a slight shudder travels through me.

CHAPTER 8

PLAN OF ATTACK

I make it back to the safety of my room and smile because I was right. He�s doing scales. They aren�t as pretty as what he usually plays, but I still love the sound. I know it�s a little �Kumbaya� to say this, but it makes me feel more connected to everything.

A few times he stops abruptly, and I imagine he�s listening for me, sensing me. I wish I could build a secret walkway across the street from our two windows.

When he�s finished, I check my email and see one from Daria, the girl in Benjamin�s apartment.

Hi there�

Benjamin ran off and I never got to give him your email.

I tell you what, if you want, let�s go shopping on Saturday.

Why don�t you meet me at Strawberry Fields in

Central Park at two?

Ciao,

Daria

My dad peeks his head in without knocking, which annoys me. He�s wearing his fuzzy gray robe. �Hey, Moonbeam, what�s up?�

I quickly minimize the screen so he can�t see the email.

�Nothing. Just looking at Internet porn.�

He smiles, but then his face gets all twisted up, and I realize I still have the lipstick on. I try to think of something quick.

�I was fooling around at Sephora.�

He sits down on the floor and starts playing with a scarf I have hanging on the back of the door. �Elise is here,� he says.

I am not prepared for this information.

�That was fast,� I reply.

�Yes, it was. I�m not even sure what I�m doing, but I want to���I want to make sure you�re okay with it.�

What am I supposed to say to this? Yes, it�s fine, just tell the hippie lady to move in?

�I�m okay with it as long as you are.�

He stands up and paces around my room, the scarf wrapped around his hands.

�You know, every time I think I�m moving forward, that just maybe I can be a normal person in the world, I see you.�

He stops and puts a hand to my face, draws an imaginary comma on my cheek. I turn away and wipe off the lipstick with a tissue.

�You have her eyes, her smile, her quick mind. You�re everything that was great about her.�

I try to stop tears from pushing out.

�Were there things that weren�t great about her?�

He puts the scarf around me and says, �Well, there were certain sides of her life she never showed me. I think everyone has those sides.� He puts the scarf back on the hook and turns to me. �Are there things you feel, thoughts you have, that are only for you, completely private?�

I think about Oliver and his cello, and my mother�s phone under the mattress.

�Yes.�

�Well, I think that Elise is an open book. She doesn�t really have anything to hide. While it�s reassuring, I�m not sure about it���there�s no mystery.�

I don�t know what to say, so I just watch him. He has gotten something back, he seems more confident. I want to ask him more about the day my mother died, and tell him I found the cuff link, but I know this isn�t the time.

�If you see her in the morning, don�t be alarmed, okay?�

�Okay. Did you tell Tile?�

�No. I thought maybe you could talk to him about it. He really looks up to you.�

�No problem.�

He kisses me on my forehead and leaves the room. I reopen the email and wonder why Daria wants to hang out with me. I figure it won�t hurt, especially if we meet in public. But doesn�t she have people her own age to shop with?

When I see Elise in the morning, I notice that she looks different. Loosened. It�s strange having her in my kitchen, spilling sugar on the counter and not cleaning it up. She smiles at me from behind her coffee mug and suddenly I feel transparent.

�So, are you like, moving in now?�

She laughs and shakes the hair out of her eyes. �The U-Haul is outside.�

Good, I think, she has a sense of humor. Tile runs in and grabs the toast I made for him and jumps into the breakfast nook. I gave him a little prep talk about Elise last night, but he barely seems to notice her.

When she leaves the kitchen, I clean up her spilled sugar and rinse her mug out with extra-hot water. Tile watches me curiously.

�So that�s Dad�s new girlfriend?�

�I think so. Do you like her?�

He�s quiet for a moment, then says, �We made cookies yesterday.�

�That�s good. I think it�s right for Dad to have a new friend around.�

�How many times a day do you think about Mom?�

He�s serious now. It�s frightening, these moments when he looks like an adult and has so much truth in his eyes. Completely exposed.

�Five, maybe more depending on the day. What about you?�

�A thousand,� he says, as if it�s a single-digit number.

�Well, I bet you wherever she is, every time you think about her she feels it in some way.�

�No she doesn�t. She�s dead.� Here are the adult eyes again. I feel myself caving in, like I could just start sobbing. I�m glad to actually feel things again, but it�s almost easier not to. I give him a hug. He squeezes back, and he smells so pure and clean that for a moment I think, He�s going to be all right. We are all going to be all right.

I meet Daria in the park and she has on a short black skirt and another thin sweater the color of blood, like her lipstick. She sits down next to me on a bench and sighs.

�You live around here, right?�

�Very close,� I say.

She puts her hand on my thigh and says, �Well, let�s move.�

She takes me to Victoria�s Secret and buys me a �starter� bra. I am not even embarrassed because she has this way about her, like everything is natural. Then we go to H&M and she buys me a pink hoodie. I don�t usually wear pink, but being with Daria, I feel like the possibilities are endless. She even eats pretzels from the street vendors. We get two, draw thin lines of mustard on them, and sit at a bus stop. She asks me about boys and I start telling her about Oliver. His curly hair, the music, and the way he looked at me at the dry cleaner.

�You need a plan of attack,� she says, wiping mustard from the corner of her mouth.

�Attack?�

�You know, a plan.�

�I really want to watch him play.�

�Good. Tell him you are writing an essay for school on classical music. And you�d like to sit in on his rehearsal for research purposes.�

I don�t have the heart to tell Daria this is a dumb idea, so I just shrug. A bus pulls up and the driver smiles at us.

�Or���what if you just ask him, flat out?�

If someone had said this to me a month ago I would never have considered it, but I�m feeling strangely empowered after finding Mom�s phone. �Yeah, why not?�

�Okay, but here�s the thing. Act aloof, like it was just something that popped into your mind. Never give too much away.�

What is it with adults and their secrets? I start watching the people walk by: a businessman, a skater kid, an old lady. I realize they all have secrets, hidden like small stones in their pockets.

�What should I wear?�

�Wear the hoodie I got you, and your favorite jeans. It�s very important that you wear your favorite jeans.�

She gets a call on her cell phone and talks for a minute while I finish my pretzel.

�I�ve got to run downtown for a go-see.�

I know this term, as my mother was always on go-sees. It�s where a designer or a photographer gives you a quick look to see if you�re right for a shoot or a runway show. Daria throws half of her pretzel in the trash and kisses me on both cheeks.

�You have my cell, right? Let me know how it goes with Cello Boy.�

�Okay.� As she walks away I say, �Thanks for everything.� She turns around and waves her hand like it was nothing. I realize I never got to ask her about the cuff link, whether it might belong to Benjamin. Maybe the next message will lead me there.

When I get home, I go into my room and put on the bra and the hoodie. I walk over to the window

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 786