The Collected Regrets of Clover

Priya looked awkwardly out the window. “Oh, yeah … looks like it.” She busied herself arranging her pens—the fancy gel kind—and notebook on her desk.

As I watched her, a feeling of intense gratitude washed over me. A new addition to our class evened up the numbers, which meant that when we had to work in pairs, I wouldn’t have to face the embarrassment of always being the one left over. Or endure the look of pity from our teacher, Ms. Lynd, as she appealed to the nearest pair to let me invade and form a reluctant trio.

But Priya also represented a clean slate. She didn’t know the social dynamics of our sophomore class. Or that I’d earned the nickname “Clover of the Crypt,” which nobody ever said to my face, but which I’d overheard in sniggers and whispers in the hall. So when we joined our desks together for a partnered task, I thought it was finally happening: I was about to make my first friend. Priya was impressed with all the facts I knew about Singapore (Grandpa had told me about a sabbatical he’d taken there before I was born) and was excited that I knew how to play mahjong. And when she told me she loved reading Virginia Woolf and Joan Didion, I knew we were the perfect fit. As I walked home along the river that afternoon, I couldn’t help envisioning what life might be like with a friend my own age—and one who was a girl.

I’d noticed Priya’s pierced ears, painted nails, and colored lip gloss, and I’d watched the way she giggled and twirled her ponytail when the boys in our class made jokes. I could definitely use someone to talk to about those things. Now that I was a teenager, I was beginning to suspect that I might be missing out on some vital knowledge because I didn’t have a mother figure in my life. So far I’d navigated the obstacles of puberty via books from the school library (Grandpa offered me a scientific explanation of what was happening to my body, and money to purchase the necessary menstrual accouterments, but was no help beyond that). And when my classmates had begun to wear makeup, I’d tried replicating their efforts using products cobbled together from the drugstore. But with no one to advise me on skin tone—or the merits of being light-handed—the results had made me mostly swear off makeup for life. Having Priya as a friend might change that.

But I didn’t want to come on too strong—or seem too desperate. So at first, I tried to play it cool. I smiled at her when I saw her in the hall and made brief small talk before class started by recommending a couple of books I thought she’d like. I figured I’d wait two weeks and then maybe invite her to Bessie’s bookstore after school. And then I could casually suggest we go for coffee or see a movie and our friendship would blossom from there. She might even invite me over to her place for dinner with her parents. I bet her mother was just as sophisticated as she was. I’d probably even need to get a flip phone like the other kids in my class, now that I’d finally have someone who wanted to contact me besides Grandpa. He was still my best friend, and I loved that he always had time for me, but I was ready to branch out and finally make a real friend.

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d felt this exhilarated.



* * *



Two weeks later, I waited by Priya’s locker after the final bell. I’d stopped by the restrooms on my way to double-check that the clip-on earrings I’d gotten from a stall on Canal Street were on straight. I hoped she might also notice my new Stellar Strawberry Lip Smacker gloss.

When she spotted me waiting, she looked surprised.

“Oh, hey, Clover—what’s up?” The sparkly sweater she was wearing looked expensive.

“Hey, Priya.” I tried to lean nonchalantly against the locker next to hers but almost lost my balance. “I was going to go to my favorite bookstore in the West Village after school and I was wondering if you want to come?”

She concentrated hard on putting her books in her locker one at a time. “Thanks, but I can’t today.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We could go tomorrow—or next week sometime?”

Priya closed her locker slowly, letting the latch click delicately into place. Then she turned to look at me.

“I’m really sorry, Clover, but I don’t think I can hang out with you at all.” She looked down at her pristine high-top sneakers. “It’s really unfair what all the other kids say about you—but I’m trying to fit in too. I think it’s better if we just see each other in class.”

“Oh, okay,” I said quietly, as the burn of rejection began to sear in my chest. “I understand.”

She smiled meekly. “Thanks—I’ll see you tomorrow in social studies, I guess.”

I watched forlornly as Priya crossed the hall to a group of girls I’d known since elementary school. As they all gathered around to admire her sweater, I felt a pang of envy, suddenly self-conscious of my frumpy Old Navy sweatshirt.

That was the day that I began to realize how hard it is to be anything but what the world already thinks you are.





17


The turquoise paint rimming my cuticles almost glowed under the harsh amber light of my building’s front stoop. I’d just finished the abstract painting class I’d signed up for to honor the regret of an eighty-year-old biochemist named Lily. She’d never pursued her passion for painting because of her ninth-grade teacher’s frank assessment that she had no talent and should stick to science. A few days before she died, I’d brought Lily a canvas and paints so that she could have a chance to finally unleash her suppressed creativity. But by then her arthritis had rendered her hands so weak and painful that it only made her sadder that she hadn’t tried it sooner.

So far I wasn’t showing much talent for it myself, but at least I could say I’d tried it.

The spice of Leo’s seafood bisque was wafting down the stairwell as it usually did on Fridays, growing stronger as I walked stealthily up to my apartment. I’d managed to go several weeks without running into Sylvie again.

Just as I thought I’d made it safely past the second floor, my relief shifted to complacency as I forgot to avoid the noisiest floorboard on the staircase. Behind me, a door whined open.

“Clover, hey!” Sylvie called across the landing.

I turned reluctantly to face my new neighbor, who was leaning against her doorway in a gray sweatshirt with some kind of band name on it.

“Oh, hi, Sylvie.” I was grateful my keys gave me something to do with my hands. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too!” Sylvie beamed and I wondered if her enthusiasm level was ever set to anything but high. “I’ve been hoping to run into you again but I keep missing you. Lucky I heard your footsteps outside my door—I knew it wasn’t Leo because he couldn’t walk up the stairs that fast.”

“Oh, right,” I said, disappointed in myself. “So … how’s everything going?” I couldn’t help reflecting back some of her friendliness, like it was contagious.

“I’m finally all moved in! Well, there are still a few boxes that need unpacking. But I’m looking forward to getting to know the neighborhood—and my neighbors, of course.”

“That’s great—I know Leo always loves meeting new people.” I hoped she caught my emphasis.

“Oh, yeah, Leo’s an old charmer—and he clearly loves seafood,” Sylvie said, raising her eyes to the ceiling and wrinkling her nose. “But I want to know more about you. Maybe we finally can grab that coffee tomorrow?”

It was going to be really hard to keep avoiding her. And Leo was right: he wouldn’t be around forever and I’d have no one once he was gone. At the very least, I’d need someone to list as my emergency contact on registration forms—it would make practical sense for me to form a new acquaintance for that reason alone. Plus, the idea of spending the next year tiptoeing up and down the stairs and hiding from Sylvie was exhausting. It might be worth trying. I just couldn’t get attached—or reveal too much about myself.

“Sure,” I said, though I wasn’t at all. “That would be nice.” There was no turning back now.

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