“Might see you around sometime.”
Ten minutes later, it’s just Jazz and me. The room looks sad now, full of the evening’s remains. A half-eaten dip platter, empty glasses, used napkins. But what does it matter? With a good bottle of wine, we won’t even notice.
“What do you say, Jazz?” I say. “One more bottle? Or just a glass?”
I’m tempted to say for old times’ sake, but I hold it in, hoping our friendship is still current enough not to require that particular enticement. But Jazz just glances nervously around, as though she’s forgotten there’s no one left to save her.
“Better not, Evie,” she says finally. “It really is getting late.”
I nod and tell her, “Yes, it’s fine, we probably should get an early night.” But as we reach for our purses, I glance at my watch. It’s 8:30 P.M.
16
Clementine
“All right, class!” Miss Weber says, “Good news. The second grade Family Dance Night is next week!”
It’s after recess and we are sitting in home circle. I’d been zoning out, staring out the window, but suddenly, I’m listening.
Miranda puts up her hand. “What’s Family Dance Night?”
“We do it every year,” Miss Weber says. “It happens after school, in the gymnasium. There’ll be food and drinks and dancing. All the second graders are invited to bring a friend or family member with them. It could be a grandparent, a friend, or you could bring your mom or dad—”
“Oh!” Miranda says. She says it in a long and drawn-out way, like this finally makes sense. “The Daddy Daughter, Mommy Son Dance, you mean?”
I see a twig on the floor in front of me and I pick it up and I dig it into a groove in the carpet. Last year I went to the dance with Daddy. He’d called it a date. I remember him arriving at school in his work clothes with a bunch of flowers. Red and pink and yellow and purple. No one else’s dad brought flowers, not even Miranda’s. He opened the doors for me and took off my coat, like he did for Mom. And when the dancing started, he let me stand on his feet and we swished around the room like a King and Queen.
“That’s what we called it last year, yes.” Miss Weber’s cheeks turn pink. “But this year, we thought it would be more fun to let people bring whomever they wanted—”
“In case they don’t have moms or dads?” Miranda asks.
“Or in case they’d rather bring someone else,” Miss Weber says.
Miranda puts up her hand again, but Miss Weber looks over her head and keeps talking. “Anyway, we have lots to do. We need to get our decorations ready—streamers, banners, balloons. So, I’d like everyone to find a partner.”
Miranda grabs Legs’s knee. “Partners?”
It’s the third time Miranda has done that this week. It’s like, all of sudden, Miranda is in love with Legs or something.
Legs looks at me.
“You don’t mind, do you, Clem?” Miranda says. Her voice is all singy, like she’s trying to be nice, but she’s just being tricky. “You could be partners with … hmmm, let’s see—” She looks around, tapping her bottom lip with her finger.
“I’ll be your partner, Clem.”
It’s Harry who says it. He smiles and pushes his hair out of his eyes.
I’d rather be partners with Legs, but Harry is nice, too. I tell him, “Sure, we can be partners.”
“Yes!” Miranda says. “Harry and Clem should be partners. Neither of them have daddies.”
“Miranda!” Miss Weber says.
“What?” Miranda says. “It’s true!”
Miranda still has one hand on Legs’s knee. I look at it, and my face starts to get hot. I’m sick of her being so tricky all the time. I’m sick of her saying things about my daddy. I put my twig between two fingers and flick it. It flies up and stabs her in the eye.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” I say. Her eye is all red and watery and it makes me feel much better. “It was an accident.”
I look at Harry and we both smile. Sometimes I can be tricky, too.
*
“What are you staring at, young lady?” Bert asks.
It’s after school and I’m at Rosalind House. Mom is in the kitchen making dinner and I am in the parlor, staring at Bert. “Your eyes,” I say. “They’re yellow.”
He coughs. “They’re not.”
Gwen is sitting beside Bert, smiling. Gwen always smiles at Bert.
“They’re yellow, aren’t they, Gwen?” I ask her.
“Well, uh … I don’t have my glasses on.”
I look at his eyes again. You don’t need glasses to see that they’re yellow. “Do you want me to get you a mirror?” I ask Bert.
He looks at me like he wishes I’d go away. “At my age, you don’t like to look in the mirror too much.”
“Why not?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he says.
I shrug. “You asked the first one. About what I was staring at.”
He looks annoyed that I am right. Then he says: “Is there something I can do for you, young lady?”
Bert says “young lady” a lot. I think it’s because he doesn’t remember my name. “Yes,” I say. “I’d like to talk about Myrna.”
“Why do you want to talk about Myrna?”
“Ummm … because she’s invisible?” Der.