“Nope,” he said. “I think it’s pretty normal for you to feel weird about it. But I miiight call you out on being emotionally stunted—or maybe just immature—for the fights you get into with Helen.”
I smacked Sean’s shoulder for the insult, a reflex that proved his point. He smiled back at me with a smug “see what I mean?” look on his face.
“Okay.” I nodded at him. “I’m going in.”
I walked the few feet to our front door—our houses were attached after all—as Sean went back inside.
Our house felt extra quiet without Helen. I stared at the phone, daring myself to pick it up. I always hesitated before calling Mom. I never knew her teaching schedule, or if she’d be writing, or working on a new translation, or reading postmodern theory. When she’d first told me the term, I’d had no idea what she was talking about, and she’d laughed when I told her I watched a show on MTV called PostModern. I think that was why she sent me Foucault’s collected works for my birthday last year. Needless to say, I hadn’t read them.
I willed myself toward the phone, telling myself that I had no reason to be so nervous. I’d missed her call, but she wouldn’t be mad at me for that. It would be fine. I inhaled deeply, placed my hand on the receiver, picked it up, and dialed.
“Hello?” Mom answered.
“Hi. It’s Athena,” I said. As if she didn’t know.
“Hi, baby,” Mom said. “I’m in New York!”
“Awesome!” I said, then cringed. She hated when I used awesome to mean cool. She always said it was a bastardization of the word’s true meaning. “How’s the job?”
“It’s fantastic, Athena,” she continued. “Lower teaching load, much more research focused, and an extra year on my tenure clock. Isn’t that amazing?”
I had no idea what most of that meant, but sure.
“Yeah, amazing!” I said anyway.
“So, your father and I have talked,” she said.
When had they had the chance to talk? I didn’t even know that they did talk. My whole body tensed at the idea of what that might mean, because it couldn’t be good.
“Really? About what?” The words came out strangled.
“Oh, it’s good news, sweetie,” she told me. “He and I have decided that, since I’ll be in Rome over winter break for a research trip, you and Helen should each visit me in New York for your birthdays.”
“But we were supposed to go to Rome with you,” I said. “And my birthday is in November and Helen’s is in April. That...doesn’t seem fair to her.”
The disappointment hit me right in the chest. I should be used to this by now, but somehow it always hurt. And while it didn’t explain Helen’s outfit change, Mom’s decision did explain why she was egging me on more than usual. This news sucked for her even more than it did for me.
“I know it’s not what you wanted,” she said. “But I wanted to make sure I could spend some quality time with each of you individually, and because of my schedule in Rome, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I promise it’ll be better than Eugene. I almost never saw you this summer. The two of you were always off together, plotting something.”
I didn’t believe for a second that she didn’t notice that when we left her house, we generally biked in opposite directions. She was only saying that because it made her feel better, not because it would make me feel better. She couldn’t tell me the truth, which was that she was cutting down our visits because in New York, it would be too hard for her to keep an eye on both of us.
I twisted the phone cord around my finger, trying to convince myself that New York in November for a few days would be as cool as Rome for two weeks at Christmas. I knew if I tried to say something, I would cry. So I didn’t.
“You’ll love New York,” Mom gushed, filling in the silence. “When you get tired of all the wonderful museums, we can go shopping at those stores you’re always complaining aren’t in Baton Rouge.”
I snorted a cynical laugh. Mom’s perception of teenage taste included lots of bright colors and Italian leather. Even Helen, Queen of Fashion, had balked at the weird patchwork leather clothes she’d sent us from her last research trip to Italy.
I considered telling Mom about the Cute Boy in my physics class because he was the most exciting thing that had happened to me all day. I couldn’t do it, though. She’d probably get the wrong idea and send me a box of condoms or another copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves.
So I settled in and let her do the talking—it was much easier that way anyway.
4
Melissa’s rusty blue Subaru wheezed as she drove me and Helen to dinner after orchestra auditions. We were supposed to be celebrating. My dad, convinced that our Saturday afternoon would yield first-chair victories for the two of us, had given me money to take Melissa out to dinner, as long as we picked up Helen after the auditions and took her, too. Sean was also meeting us at the restaurant for our first group hangout since I’d gotten back from Eugene.
Instead, we rode in miserable silence. Melissa didn’t even bother to play anything in the tape deck or turn on the radio. It didn’t feel right to listen to music under the circumstances. We had both been robbed, and neither of us wanted to talk about it. Melissa ended up second to Tommy Roberts, violin genius of Baton Rouge, and I was second to Aaron Cormier, Dr. Walsh’s favorite orchestra player in the history of ever. I didn’t care as much as Melissa, since being second chair to his precious Aaron meant Dr. Walsh would yell at me less. Melissa had been winning competitions since her dad started teaching her Cajun fiddle when she was four, though, and she deserved to beat Tommy Roberts, a Suzuki-obsessed automaton.
By the time we pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot, we were the two glummest people ever. Melissa went in to put her name on the waiting list, while Helen and I stayed outside. Helen stood next to me, leaning casually against the building, one of her legs propped up stork-like against the stucco wall.
“Is Sean coming?” Helen asked, staring out toward the road.
That was weird. Helen never asked about Sean.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Is he bringing her?”
“Probably.”
We lapsed into silence again.
“She’s a bitch,” Helen said after an eternity. She shifted uncomfortably next to me, a fidget that turned into a reworking of her slouchy form.
“Yeah, I know. Don’t use that word, though. It’s sexist.”
Melissa and I were trying to weed the word out of our vocabulary, except in cases of irony or humor, and then only with each other, not about other people. Melissa often made an exception for Leah, but as Sean’s friend, I tried to stick to the B-ban for her, too. To do otherwise would be hypocritical.