“Just out of curiosity, how would a girl know if you were going to be a couple?” Lily was reaching—fishing for a commitment from him like she was one of his desperate admirers. She disliked herself for it, and as the silence stretched out, her question hanging like a bad smell in the air, she started to dislike him for not answering her. They pulled into Lily’s driveway, Tristan’s face never even twitching to show that he’d registered what she’d said.
“I’ll pick you up at seven for the party,” he said, then drove off.
Lily stood outside in the cold sea air after Tristan left. She liked the cold. She especially liked the clean, salty air that blew in off the Atlantic Ocean, which was pounding away at the rocky shore just a few blocks from her house. Cold, damp air cleared her head and soothed her skin. Luckily for Lily, growing up in Salem meant that there had always been plenty of blustery winds off the water.
When she was comfortable and cool, Lily turned and went inside the ancient Colonial house that had been in her family since the Pilgrims had landed. Literally. Lily’s parents, Samantha and James Proctor, could trace their families back to the Mayflower, and both of them had family members who had either lived in Salem or the surrounding Essex County since there was such a thing as an Essex County on this continent. Sometimes Lily wondered if her raging allergies were from inbreeding, but her sister told her that was ridiculous. Tristan’s family, the Coreys, had been in Salem just as long as the Proctors had, and there was certainly nothing inbred about Tristan.
Lily put her stuff down on the kitchen table and listened to the house for a moment. “Mom?” she called, when she decided it sounded empty.
“Is that you, Lillian?” Only Samantha, Lily’s mom, called her by her full name.
“Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?” Lily wandered toward her mother’s voice, confused. It sounded like she was out in the garage.
“Ah, Mom. Look at this mess,” Lily exclaimed when she saw what her mother was up to out there.
Samantha sat at her old potter’s wheel, her curly red hair sticking out wildly, throwing clay in her pajamas and robe. She was in the spot where Lily’s dad parked his car, but she hadn’t put a tarp down underneath her. The floor was covered in drippings that were already beginning to harden. They’d have to be chipped off, but that was only half the problem. In the parking spot next to that, her mom’s old Jeep Grand Cherokee was splattered with clay. Lily dug her hands into her hair, surveying the disaster.
“There she is—no bumps or bruises! I almost came to get you at school,” Samantha said in chipper way. She only garbled her words a little, and that concerned Lily. The meds made her slur, and the slightly clearer speech could mean that she hadn’t taken all of them today. “But when I didn’t get the phone call from your principal, I knew that my Lillian wasn’t the one that trashy girl had attacked in the hallway. See? That’s how I knew the difference between what happened here and what happened elsewhere.”
Lily tried and failed to work out her mom’s logic.
“And then I saw my wheel!” Samantha continued happily. “And I wondered, why did I ever stop throwing pots?”
Lily looked at the watered-down lump of poorly mixed clay in her mother’s shaky hands and couldn’t think of a way to say the phrase you lost your mind and the meds destroyed your talent so it didn’t sound cruel.
It hadn’t escaped Lily’s notice that before she’d gone to Spanish, Miranda had looked like she’d wanted to attack her but had settled for Tristan instead. Yet, according to her mother, the fight had happened. Elsewhere. The new medication obviously wasn’t strong enough. If her mother was underdosed, things could get ugly. She’d need help.
“Hey, Mom? Aren’t you cold?” she asked brightly. Samantha nodded, like it had just occurred to her that she was. “Why don’t you go inside, and I’ll finish up out here for you.”
“Thank you, dear,” Samantha said placidly. She slid out of her dirty Crocs and took off her ruined robe, handing it to Lily.