Zoe Letting Go Page 6

  I wanted badly to know what was in the box.

  “The idea may seem strange at first,” she continued.

  I didn’t open the box. To open it would be a form of surrender, and I was not ready to surrender.

  But Alexandra was one step ahead of me.

  “You can take it with you,” she said. “Take it up to your room. Keep it. Use the contents as you see fit.”

  I nodded, and once again we were left staring at each other in a face-off.

  “Has anything else struck you as unusual?” Alexandra finally asked.

  Was that a trick question? I answered with appropriate trepidation:

  “Plenty,” I said.

  “Good. Pick one. Pick the strangest thing you’ve noticed over the past twenty-four hours, and we’ll talk about it for the rest of our session.”

  “The strangest,” I repeated. My mind shuffled through my scarecrow-like roommate, the dried apricots, Angela’s office, the ghostly figures I’d encountered in the kitchen.

  “The most bizarre detail,” Alexandra said, prompting me. “The true outlier.”

  The answer came at once.

  “That’s easy,” I said.“The outlier is me.”

  Dear Elise,

  Day three.

  I’ve always wanted to start a letter that way, like an astronaut beaming in from space. Or a desert-island exile scratching the days onto a coconut palm.

  My pen is shaky, and my handwriting shameful. I’ve been spoiled by years of laptop keyboards. I wonder—how long will it take for human hands to morph into instruments optimized for typing? Not many of us can scribble more than one hundred words without our wrists turning into bendy straws, which is a real shame. I’ll have to get my wrists into shape because even after only forty-eight hours at Twin Birch, I have many things to document.

  Want to know what I’m remembering right now? The very first party we attended. Or attempted to attend. It was the inaugural weekend of freshman year, which meant that the party would be a landmark event. Attendance was mandatory. Ahmed, the junior who was hosting, made it clear that anyone who planned on participating in the school’s social universe had better show up—preferably with alcohol, or, failing that, with attractive friends in tow. Expectations were high, and the stakes were even higher.

  By Friday afternoon the air was clotted with anticipation. Our teachers suspected that something was up—the hallways already reeked of cigarettes, perfume, and barely contained anarchy—but they were helpless to stop it. Kids jogged through the hallways and bounced off the walls. Minor rules were broken without a care. It was the first Friday of September—what did anyone expect? For that day and that day only, the inmates ran the asylum.

  Ahmed’s party was crucial for several reasons. Most importantly, it would set a precedent for the entire semester. Those who hooked up would become couples. Those who acted crazy (in a good way) and those who acted crazy (in a bad way) would solidify their respective reputations. Stories would be generated during that narrow window of time—between eleven p.m. and three a.m. on Friday, September 4—that would carry us through the entire year. Those stories would become currency. Extracurricular currency. If you were at the party, you already had something in common with the cooler upperclassmen. You could tell your own party anecdotes and comment on other people’s party anecdotes; you could laugh when someone imitated the guy who passed out on top of a beanbag and had to go to a chiropractor for three months in order to restore his back to its native posture. Or whatever.

  If you weren’t at the party, you could still laugh at the stories people told. But there would always be the chance that someone would give you a weird look and say, “Wait, were you there?” And if the answer to that question was anything but yes, you could just pack up your dignity and go home.

  You and I adhered to a strict pre-party plan all day. We designed a playlist with confidence-enhancing songs. We skipped lunch. We combed our closets for the kind of clothes that would attract older boys without setting off the jealousy sensors of older girls, which is a very delicate equation. At nine p.m. we stopped at Starbucks for two shots of espresso each, treating the bitter liquid like medicine. Drinking espresso on an empty stomach, incidentally, has two effects: One, it makes you jittery. Two, it takes away your appetite.

  At eleven p.m., appropriately dressed, coiffed, and caffeinated, we began the twelve-block journey to Ahmed’s brownstone. By that time, we figured, the house would be full enough that we could slip in without the awkwardness of ringing the doorbell and making an entrance. It was September, but the temperature hadn’t dipped below eighty-five degrees in three weeks. And I was preoccupied, as usual, with the likelihood of my hair frizzing into a clump of wool.

  “Crap,” you said as we walked. “I’m already sweating through your shirt.” You lifted your arms to exhibit a pair of wet splotches underneath. The shirt, a white silk blouse I’d found on sale at Barneys, contrasted starkly with your summer tan. It was the nicest shirt I’d ever bought, and I admit that I felt a twinge of envy at how much better you looked in it than me.

  “Not noticeable,” I said, focused on smoothing my fly-aways. “Don’t worry.” What I knew (and you didn’t) was that you could have doused the shirt in espresso and no one would have noticed. One of the benefits of being a pretty girl is that you look good in anything, even things that nobody should look good in. Things like turtlenecks and ankle-length dresses and burgundy lipstick.

  “But I’m making your shirt smell terrible,” you wailed, sniffing. “My armpits smell like curry. Like spicy vindaloo.”

  “It’s New York,” I said. “Who doesn’t love Indian food?”

  This made us both giggle. Another side effect of the espresso.

  You were exaggerating, obviously. I smelled not a whiff of curry unfurling from your direction—just the little daubs of vanilla musk we’d applied to our pulse points. Perfume, in general, was against our personal rules, but we made a special exception for the vanilla oil. Perfume was dangerous because it was a clear sign of effort, and in our world, subtlety ruled.

  You couldn’t go to a party looking like you’d spent more than five minutes putting yourself together. (A mandate also known as the Law of Kate Moss.) Of course, “effortless chic” translated for us non-model civilians into several hours of hair-rumpling and eyeliner-smudging and jeans-cuffing.

  When the giggles subsided, you reverted back to an anxious mood. “I hate being at the bottom of the food chain,” you said. We were growing closer to Ahmed’s. “I don’t know anyone there.” Having belonged to the small minority of students who had gone to a public elementary school (I’d gotten an academic scholarship, and your grandparents had ponied up the funds when our school district’s rating went down), we’d immediately found ourselves excluded from the tight-knit circle of private-school kids who populated our new high school. They all had years of history together—years of shared history and common references. None of them were particularly hungry for outside influences.

  “You’ll know me,” I pointed out. “Plus, there’s nothing to worry about because you’re the hot one. All you have to do is avoid barfing in someone’s lap, and you’ll make a good impression. I, on the other hand, have to actively charm people.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s true,” I said. “You can admit it; I won’t be offended.”

  “Stop or I’ll barf in your lap.”

  I cut it out—I always do—but the underlying facts were inarguable. I’ve never felt competitive about the way you look because it’s almost like a matter of historical record: Columbus discovered America in 1492, George Washington never chopped down the cherry tree, Elise is the prettiest girl in the 11201 zip code. Only a moron would contest the matter. If I were awful-looking, it would be tough being your best friend. But I’m okay-looking. If I work at it, I can even be cute.

  As we approached Ahmed’s address, another sudden change came over you. We both have our moody spells, naturally,
but I couldn’t put my finger on this one. Maybe the caffeine wore off; maybe the adrenaline stopped circulating. Maybe you remembered something that we were both trying to suppress. Whatever the culprit, we were halfway down Ahmed’s block when you stopped dead in your tracks. Further down the block, I could see a thicket of kids arriving with plastic bags of alcohol.

  “Can we walk around the block before we go in?” you asked, chewing your bottom lip. “I need to get my bearings.”

  “Sure,” I said, figuring we could each use some encouragement. I checked the time on my phone. Eleven fifteen p.m. “We’re ahead of schedule, anyhow.”

  A distant bass line thumped as we backtracked and hung a right down Hicks Street, which was thankfully empty except for dog-walkers. As we moved away from Ahmed’s house, the movement of the party began, perversely, to work its magic on my nervous system. Call it a proximity buzz, but I could almost taste the drink I planned to mix for myself—three ice cubes, splash of seltzer, orange peel, and an icy shock of vodka—traveling down my throat. You and I had discovered the drink that summer when your parents were away, and it made us feel special and cool that we now had a signature drink. My heartbeat sped up to match the bass that pulsed faintly from around the block. A few weeks earlier, I’d been dreading the end of summer. But summer’s drowsy tranquility was nothing compared to the excitement of a new school year—the excitement of endless, unexplored possibilities.

  As I entertained this reverie, you vanished. Halting, I turned and saw that you’d stopped ten paces behind to sit down on the steps of a dark-windowed townhouse. The orange glow of a street lamp shone down on your slumped figure. I reversed my course and sat down next to you.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” you said. Wisps of white-blond hair tickled across your face. I could hear the slam of taxi doors as more people arrived at Ahmed’s. They couldn’t see us here. We were safely tucked out of sight.

  “It’s going to be fun,” I said, taking on my customary role of cheerleader. “You don’t smell like an Indian buffet. Not a spoonful. Not even a teaspoonful, which would actually be kind of nice because I’m starving.” This didn’t get a laugh from you, and I had a sudden and terrible premonition about what would happen that night. A sea change had occurred between point A (my house) and point B (the steps where we sat), and although I had a vague idea of what it was, I didn’t want to bring up a subject that we’d agreed to bury.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” I said.

  “I’m trying to forget about it.”

  I nodded, knowing exactly what you were talking about, and slung an arm around your waist.

  “The first week of school—” you started, then stopped. Tears were beginning to sweep fairy trails of mascara down your cheeks. Oh no, I thought. Seeing you upset made me upset, too, though at the moment I didn’t let myself cry. Unlike you, crying makes me look like a newborn gerbil, which means that I can never, ever cry in front of anyone. I wish I had the ability to look pretty while sobbing like you, but oh well.

  “People are monsters,” you said.

  “They can be,” I agreed. Your mood was spiraling downward, and my head was rapidly calculating ways to make you feel better.

  “It still catches me by surprise.”

  “But that’s a good thing,” I said. “That means you’re not cynical.”

  “Small consolation,” you said. “It hurts like—”

  “I know.” I nuzzled my head against your shoulder, praying that your tears would dry up. My stomach was a pretzel of worry as I sat with my arms around you, wishing—for the first and only time in my life—that I was more maternal and Oprah-shaped, if only to give more effective hugs.

  You wiped your cheek, causing a fresh black smear of makeup. “I’m not crazy, right? He’ll be there.”

  “He will,” I had to admit, removing the smear with a finger.

  “Then I can’t go,” you said simply.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I’m sorry,” you said.

  “It’s okay.” Ever since I sat down beside you in the streetlight’s circle, my heart had been cringing with anticipation of your meltdown. It wasn’t the most generous feeling, but how could I stop it? I’d spent so much time looking forward to tonight. So much time preparing, planning, straightening hair, and plucking eyebrows. Here we sat, less than 400 feet away from the holy grail of freshman year, and you wanted to walk away because one stupid boy had been mean to you earlier in the week. I was torn between utter disappointment and self-pity. But when I saw how unhappy you were, my feelings died down. It wasn’t your fault, I knew.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this to you,” you said, leaning your head against my shoulder.

  What could I have done? I did want to go to the party. It was important. But so were you. And in the balance, you were much more important.

  I rallied my spirits—there was only one way to deal with this.

  “I don’t want to go, either,” I said as convincingly as I could. “Let’s get Diet Cokes and go home. I’ll give you a complicated manicure. We’ll watch TV and sleep in.”

  “You’re sure?”

  It didn’t matter, I knew. You’d already made your decision.

  “Yeah. If you think about parties objectively,” I said, “they’re kind of pointless. You go to someone’s house and hang out for a while. You drink, see people you sort of know, and cycle through different moods. After a while you go home. Then you wake up with vague memories that are basically the same as other vague memories which you already have. And then you think to yourself, That was amazing. I can’t wait to do that again.”

  You laughed. I was trying to convince myself as much as you.

  “Harry won’t even be home yet,” I went on, struggling to erase any hint of resentment from my voice. “We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  As we stood up from the stoop, I could hear the whole symphony of arrival sounds from Ahmed’s house a block away: cab doors slamming, bottles clinking in brown paper bags, cries of recognition and greeting. We tacitly agreed to take an alternate route home in order to avoid running into anyone we knew.

  “Welcome to high school,” I said, linking my arm in yours.

  “Right,” you said. “And I just failed the entrance exam.”

  “Don’t sweat it for a second. There’ll be makeup exams.”

  “You think?”

  “Parties are like bodegas,” I improvised, as we ducked into a corner deli to buy our Cokes. “There’s always one right around the corner.”

  That was a lie, as we both knew, but a necessary lie. In my book, necessary lies get a free pass on the morality scale. If I’d told you the truth—that avoiding the party would only worsen the catastrophe of the week before—would that have helped matters at all? Would you have felt better?

  No.

  After all the ups and downs we’ve been through ever since, the idea of spending this summer with a group of strange girls I don’t know—and without you—seems absurd. Laughable. As though someone asked me to perform a patently impossible feat: travel through time, turn water into wine, shoot lasers from my eyeballs. In the case of such demands, there is simply no reasonable response.

  When our parents sent us to separate camps in fourth grade, we must have exhausted the nation’s supply of watermelon-scented stationery and rainbow oily stickers. My supplies are restricted, this time, to plain note cards. But I have much more to tell you. And the stakes are higher now.

  Write back.

  Love,

  Zoe

  [Day Three]

  I licked the envelope shut and printed Elise’s address on the front, paying careful attention to the clarity of my handwriting. Since I had no return address to include on the envelope, I had to ensure that the sendee was well-designated. The box that Alexandra had given me during our first session contained a wealth of writing supplies—pens, note cards of various sizes, envelo
pes—but no stamps or postage materials. I figured that Alexandra would add the stamp and the return address later, after I dropped the letter in the red box. Sliding the box back under my bed, I sat cross-legged atop the comforter with Elise’s letter. Individually, the envelope and its notepaper seemed to weigh nothing, but when packaged together, the parcel felt heavy in my hands. Substantial. I flipped it over, running my fingers along each edge and waiting for my turn in the bathroom. As I played with the envelope, another sheet of paper popped into my mind.

  The memo from Angela’s office.

  Where was it? I sat bolt upright, half-disbelieving that I’d forgotten about my little acquisition. Rewinding over the past seventy-two hours, I saw myself lift the page from Angela’s office on the first day and fold it into my jacket pocket—where, in the subsequent onslaught of adjustments and surprises, I had somehow neglected to revisit it until today. Christ, Zoe, I admonished myself, springing up from the bed. I knew my memory was iffy, but I hadn’t realized it was that iffy. The jacket was stuffed in my suitcase, and I easily located the small rectangle of folded cardstock in the left pocket. One side of the sheet was entirely covered in small type. As I slipped the sheet beneath my pillow, Caroline returned to perform what appeared to be her nightly ritual. I watched her retrieve a soft blue cloth from her top drawer and begin to shine her picture frames one by one. When I returned from the bathroom, she’d finished and gotten into bed, curving herself into a half-moon shape facing the wall. “Good night,” I said, to no response. Switching off the lamp, I crawled into bed and waited with ears pricked for Caroline’s breathing to grow shallow and steady. Twenty or thirty minutes later, I was certain that she was asleep, though I forced myself to lie mummy-like in bed for an additional five minutes, my hands clasped around the vanilla-hued square beneath my pillow, just to be safe. Once satisfied, I wriggled out of bed and padded outside to the bathroom, taking care not to scrunch the paper loudly or make any noise with my footfall. In a different world, I’d have simply stayed in bed and used the light of my cell phone to read the text-heavy page, but—alas!—my cell phone was locked away in Angela’s office. As I shut the bathroom door and flicked on the light switch, I felt my sense of puzzlement harden into determination. What time was it now—eleven? Hard to know. There was no telling how much time I would have in the bathroom before someone got up to pee in the night, so I hoisted myself onto the counter, unfolded the paper, and took a deep breath. Right now, my main priority was to absorb as much raw information as possible. The next day I could comb through the information in my mind and make sense of it while cooking and gardening and otherwise biding time. Smoothing out the pricey-looking card stock, I began at the top.