Danny butts in. “Izzy’s decided she doesn’t need to go to college.”
Sure. It’s because I don’t need to go. I press my lips together. “I just don’t think it’s the best option for me right now.”
Miranda looks like she might be trying to raise her eyebrows, but it’s impossible to be sure through all the Botox. “But Izzy, darling! It’s so important to get a good education. I know it’s what your parents would’ve wanted, especially your mom. Did you know she graduated summa cum laude? Political science major.” [This comes across badly in writing, but I know her heart’s in the right place. She’s not trying to make me feel crappy by bringing up my parents. She’s just old-fashioned about this stuff.]
Again, Danny speaks on my behalf. “I’ve tried telling her, Mom, but she thinks she knows best. Standard Izzy.” He smiles likes he’s simply jesting good-naturedly, but his words feel sharp. Loaded.
Eager to move on, I change the subject. “So Mrs Wells, are you going back to Lake Michigan for Thanksgiving this year?”
“Actually, I was thinking of visiting my sister and brother-in-law in Europe,” she replies. She sways slightly. I wonder how many glasses of wine she’s had. Or where Mr Wells is at ten thirty on a Wednesday night. She thinks I don’t see her checking her watch every few seconds, but I do. “I haven’t seen them in so long.”
There’s something oddly sad and vacant about Miranda tonight. I wonder if everything’s really that terrible between her and Mr Wells. I feel bad for her, I really do. She might be a bit cold sometimes, but she’s always been there for me. And she was important to my mom, so she’s important to me too.
“What the hell, Mom?” Danny snaps, catching both Miranda and me off guard. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“Sorry, son, I wasn’t quite sure what –”
“Why don’t you care about what I want to do?” Danny huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know I love going to Lake Michigan for the holidays. It’s the only thing keeping me going at the moment.”
He looks like a petulant only child. Which, you know, he is. It’s been so long since I’ve been to his house that I’ve forgotten how spoilt he can be sometimes. I mean, sure, we’re all different around our parents or various legal guardians. But still. I can barely stand the sight of him when he’s like this.
Suddenly the weight of everything hits me. I’m just so tired that I can’t bear to be here a second longer. “Mrs Wells, I better be taking off,” I say, rising from the sofa. Danny doesn’t look at me. “It’s been good to see you. I won’t leave it so long next time.”
With a slight wobble, Miranda stands up too, placing her glass of wine down on the coffee table a bit too hard. Unexpectedly, she throws her arms around me. She smells of expensive perfume and Sauvignon Blanc. “You take care of yourself, Izzy. And you always know where I am if you need anything.” It’s not a maternal gesture, and for once I don’t feel like there are thirty years between us. It just feels like one struggling woman hugging another. Like we’re peers.
I smile warmly, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Right back at you.”
Danny doesn’t see me out, just stays on the sofa, shooting daggers at his poor mom. I walk through the hallway and toward the front door right at the same time Mr Wells is returning home from . . . wherever. Judging by the smell of Scotch, he’s been at the bar opposite his office building.
He clumsily removes his coat and hangs it on the umbrella stand beside the door. His gray hair has gotten so white, and I’m surprised by the swollen paunch belly hanging over his suit pants – it’s expanded a lot since I last saw him.
Only when he turns around does he finally see me. A sloppy grin registers on his face. “Izzy! Great to see you. Been too long.”
And then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes run up and down my body. And in that heart-dropping second, I know he’s seen the photo too.
I feel disgusting. Like I’m being forced to grow up too fast.
Thursday 29 September
1.35 p.m.
Today some delightful human has printed off and photocopied hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of my nudes and stacked them in neat piles all over campus like some sort of visitor information leaflet. They’re all grainy and grayscale, but the quality of the printing is not the issue here. The issue is that everywhere I look the photo is tucked into ringbinders and journals and shirt pockets and uuurgggghhhhhhh.
As I walk down the gap between benches in the cafeteria, several gorilla boys from the soccer team fling paper airplanes made from the nude printouts at me. Ajita bats them out of the way with her palm like she’s merely swatting flies. One stabs me in the elephant ear. Everyone laughs.
But Ajita just sits me down at our usual table, sweeps away a fleet of origami boats also made from the photocopies, and launches into a monologue about the livelihood of barley farmers in Ethiopia. I mean, I wasn’t really listening, so it might not have been about that, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt.
At this point I am so ridiculously grateful for Ajita Dutta. If it weren’t for her I’d definitely be spending my lunchtimes holed up in a toilet cubicle, or hiding up a tree trying desperately to avoid branch-swinging Tarzan wannabes practising their muscle-ups.
Still, I can’t bring myself to ask her about Carlie. It’s sheer cowardice really, but I don’t trust myself to broach the subject without upsetting her. Because in reality she doesn’t know I found that bikini pic on her laptop, and she maybe isn’t aware of the blatant attraction floating between her and the red-headed goddess whenever they’re together. I don’t want to burst her bubble and force her to confront something she might not be ready to confront just yet.
I wish I was better at this stuff. I can crack jokes and tell stories and make my best friend laugh until the cows come home, but I seem to be missing that innate ability to emotionally support someone through something tough. I really need to work on this, because it’s not okay. Is there some sort of course I can take? A diploma in being a certified good pal? Remind me to look into it.
4.47 p.m.
Unbelievable. Danny has bought me another gift to apologize for freaking out over the destruction of his previous gift – the tulips – which were also an apology in themselves. I just want to scream at him, “I don’t need gifts! I just need you to stop being a Grade-A bucket of dicks!” but I don’t think that would go down very well. Preserving his trademark Nice Guy image is very important to him.
Anyway, as we’re all walking home together after school – lamenting the bitterly cold wind – he makes the following announcement: “So . . . what are you guys doing on the first weekend in December? Oh, I know! You’re going to see Coldplay live at the arena!”
Oh, wonderful. My inner cynic suspects he probably just wants to sing along to “Fix You” while crying and staring poignantly at me.
Ajita squeals and throws her arms around him. “Danny! That’s so awesome. Thank you! I can’t even think of anything horrible or sarcastic to say right now.”
I attempt to muster some gratitude and deliver a well-intended-but-somewhat-lackluster high five. Lackluster due to my emotional exhaustion and general wariness toward the behavior of Mr Wells, which almost seems to have some kind of ulterior motive.
He purses his lips, clearly put out by my lack of enthusiasm. In his defense, they must have set him back a buck or two of his parents’ cash since it’s been sold out for months.
Again, it kind of rubs me the wrong way, this pattern that’s emerging. It feels like every time he wants me to feel a certain way about him, he throws money at the situation. Milkshakes, Harry Potter merch, tulips, Ferrero Rocher, gig tickets. Almost as if he thinks he can buy my love.