Big Summer(19)
Sixty seconds later, Drue had taken, edited, cropped, filtered, and posted a picture of the two of us. She had her arm around my shoulder, her cheek leaning against the top of my head, and both of us were smiling. Me and my BFF and bridesmaid! she had written. I felt unsettled, angry, and increasingly certain that I was being used, but with her arm around me, with the familiar smell of her shampoo and hairspray and perfume in the air, I could also feel that old familiar pride, like I’d aced a test for which I hadn’t studied, or pulled a guy way out of my league. Drue’s regard had always felt like that. Like I’d won something valuable, against all odds. Like I’d taken something that was never meant to be mine.
By the time I made it home that night, my follower count had climbed by two thousand. Maybe this will be a good thing, I told myself, feeling the strangest combination of nausea and hope, excitement and despair. I was excited about the wedding, and Drue’s return. I was disappointed in myself for letting her back into my life so quickly, for putting up so little resistance. I was frustrated that I’d let her promulgate the lie of it all online and post a smiling picture, and the version of the truth most useful to Drue. I was already dreading having to tell my friends and family that I’d let Drue back into my life. And I’d been glad, more than anything else; glad that Drue still wanted me around, glad that my friend and I were together again.
* * *
When every crumb of the chocolate croissant had been devoured, Ian and I collected Izzy, a round-limbed, pink-cheeked, cheerful ten-year-old, and ferried her to hockey practice. At Gristedes, I picked up everything on the Snitzers’ list: black beans, garlic, shallots, a half-gallon of almond milk, honeycrisp apples, and four salmon fillets. At the dry cleaner, I collected Dr. Elise’s dresses and Dr. Mark’s shirts. At the pharmacy, I paid for Ian’s asthma inhaler refill. He took the inhaler and one of the bags of groceries; I carried the other and the clothes, and together, we walked to the Snitzers’ apartment building on East Eighty-Ninth Street.
“Can I ask you something?” Ian inquired as we entered the lobby. It was dinnertime. I could tell by the cluster of delivery guys waiting by the service elevator, each carrying plastic bags fragrant with curry or ginger and garlic or hot grease and grilled meat. Ian had told me that the building’s board had voted not to let delivery people ride the residents’ elevator—lest, I suppose, the smell of ethnic food or the sight of ethnic deliverymen and -women offend the residents.
“Ask away.”
Ian’s body seemed to slump. “Remember how I told you about Brody Holcomb?”
I nodded. Brody Holcomb was the class asshole, who’d already gotten in trouble for claiming he’d misheard the teacher’s explanation of Ian’s allergy to peanuts and tree nuts, after telling everyone that Ian had a penis allergy. That kind of wit.
“His parents had to come to school after that thing that happened. And the dad looked just like Brody! All big, and…” Ian waved his free hand around his face and body, in a way I thought was meant to communicate handsome and powerful. “At school, they tell us ‘it gets better.’ But what if Brody never changes? What if he just grows up to be like his dad?”
I considered my options as Ian trudged into the elevator, which zipped us to the Snitzers’ floor. Eight felt very young to understand the world as it was. Then again, Ian was smart. Not just smart, but wise. An old soul, his mother liked to say.
“Sometimes things do change,” I said carefully. “Sometimes things do get better.” I was thinking about myself, my years at the Lathrop School, and how I’d longed for transformation. I was thinking about Drue, and wondering if she’d actually changed at all. “And here’s the good news,” I said, putting my hand on Ian’s bony shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Even if things don’t get better, you can always make them look good on the Internet.”
Chapter Four
“Class, we have a new student joining us today!” It was the first day of sixth grade at the Lathrop School, which was allegedly one of the best private schools in the city and, not coincidentally, the school my father had attended and where he currently taught English to juniors and seniors. My parents had tried to get me into Lathrop for kindergarten. I’d gone for the playdate and the interview, and I’d been admitted, but the financial-aid package the school had offered to the children of Lathrop teachers wasn’t quite generous enough. They’d tried again when I was in fourth grade, with the same results. The third time had proved the charm.
The night before, I’d made sure my favorite denim short-alls were clean and my light-blue T-shirt spotless. I had a new pair of Nike sneakers, white with a blue swoosh, bought at the Foot Locker, on sale. I’d straightened my hair and pulled it back in a ponytail, and my mom had lent me a pair of earrings, gold and dangly, with turquoise beads. She’d taken a picture of me in my carefully chosen clothes and a tremulous smile, holding a sign she’d painted in watercolors: First Day at the Lathrop School! The shot was probably already on her Facebook page, getting oohs and ahhs and likes from my aunts and uncles and grandmother, and all of my mom’s friends.
My knees felt wobbly as I stood up so Ms. Reyes, my homeroom teacher, could introduce me. “I’d like you all to meet a new student, Daphne Berg.” I smiled, like I’d practiced at home, thinking, I hope they like me. I hope someone will be my friend. I hadn’t had many friends at my old public school. Most of my free time was spent with books, or with scissors and paper and a hot glue gun, not other kids. Most of the time, that was okay with me, but sometimes I was lonely, and I knew my parents worried about my friendlessness. It was one of the reasons they’d pushed so hard for Lathrop to take me.