There are more important things in the world than the art club.
Art can’t exist in the vacuum of emotion. It’s why Carmen draws tornadoes. It’s why Dad doesn’t draw anything at all. He’s the hole where the rat used to be. I guess if he wanted to change, he’d draw the rat. A million times, he’d draw the rat.
I can’t figure out what I am if Dad is a rat.
I can’t figure out what I am at all.
I guess that’s why I’m here. Not in the shower, but in a houseful of Sarahs, in a city full of Earls, in a joust with a windmill. I can’t figure out what I am at all.
Mom knocks on the bathroom door. She tells me to hurry up. She says, “We’re going out for breakfast.”
I try to imagine four Sarahs, a Bruce, and their mother going out to breakfast. What restaurant could handle all of us?
The only thing the waiter says is “What a beautiful family!”
And we are. We are a beautiful family.
? ? ?
Mom and Bruce go to the lawyer’s office together. All Sarahs stay at the house and hope Dad doesn’t come home. We sit at the study table.
10: You’re all so uptight. Dad isn’t gonna freak out again.
ME: You don’t know that.
23: She has a point. We’d just call the police again. He knows that.
ME: It doesn’t matter what he knows. He can’t control himself.
40: His whole gig is control. He’ll be fine. We’ll talk to him.
23: He won’t know what to do with us.
10: I’ve met him twice and he still has no idea who I am.
ME: True. She even came over for dinner.
23: You went to dinner?
10: We ate tacos.
ME: He thinks her name is Katie.
40: Katie?
10: It was the first name that came to mind.
ME: She even played “Eleanor Rigby” for him on piano.
40: God, I’d love to hear that.
Ten-year-old Sarah sits at the piano and plays her rusty version again. She tells me to play, so I do and it’s a little less rusty than it was when I played for Mom last week. Twenty-three-year-old Sarah looks sad. Forty-year-old Sarah says, “I really should take up piano again.”
23: Me too.
ME: The skin is the largest organ in the human body. Did you know that?
10: If you know it, then we all know it.
23: We have thick skin. I know that.
ME: I’m still mad about never finding out who stole the headpiece. I know I shouldn’t be. I know I should get over it. I just want to know.
40: You find out.
23: I do?
ME: I do?
10: Who was it?
40: It’s exactly who you think it is.
ME: How did you find out?
40: Carmen.
ME: You still know Carmen?
40: She’s my best friend.
23: I’m so glad. She’s been so hard to reach lately. I thought things were going to go bad between us.
40: You’re spending too much time with your boyfriend. She thinks he’s an asshole but can’t tell you.
10: I don’t even know how you can go with boys. They’re so dumb.
ME: So it was Vicky? Or Miss Smith?
40: Trust your gut.
I know it was both. Vicky. And Miss Smith. I find my queen of the unicorns tinfoil headpiece and start working on it again. More foil. Spikes like the Statue of Liberty, but longer and more disorganized.
ME: But the whole art club knew, though, right?
40: Carmen didn’t know, but then she found out. The art club still has a page on The Social.
23: That’s pathetic.
ME: Do they all become famous artists?
40: What do you think?
23: I very much doubt any of them become famous artists.
10: Most famous artists only become famous after they die, anyway. Like José Guadalupe Posada.
I try on my new crown and stand up to see myself in the mirror. It needs work. The spikes aren’t looking as good as I thought they would.
40: So, I took care of the Miss Smith thing yesterday. I figured you’d want to know.
23: Sick bitch. I read about that.
40: I know you wanted to let it go. I did, too, when I was you. But some things you just can’t paint over.
Some things you just can’t paint over. I think about 40 and how she doesn’t seem married or in love with anyone. I think about how Tiffany ignored my question about love when she read my palm. I don’t know how much control I have over my Sarahs. Are they really me or are they the me I think I’ll be? I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to this. Not until it happens.
10: Can I wear your crown?
I hand her the crown and say, “You can keep it. It looks best on you.”
A car parks in front of the house and a car door slams. Ten-year-old Sarah goes to the front window and says, “It’s Dad.” I text Mom the way she told me to. I text Bruce, too, in case Mom is too busy to read her texts.
All Sarahs stand in the living room. 40 has her hands on her hips. 23 blocks the way to the kitchen. 10 opens the door. I sit on the stairs because I want a good view.
Dad hangs his head. I have seen this act before. He is now sorry for everything he did when he did it. He is now in control by being sorry for losing control. If his character had a name in our play, he would be called Pathetic Rat.
PR (doesn’t look up): Please don’t ask me to leave. Let me say some things first.