I'd Give Anything(51)



On the way out, she stopped to look at the flyers pinned to the bulletin board by the door, and there, gazing out from one of them, was Cressida, her face smudged and mournful-eyed under the brim of a big, soft mushroom cap of a hat: an ad for St. Michael’s School’s upcoming production of Les Misérables. In eighth grade, Avery had gone on a school trip to see a performance in Philadelphia, so she knew that Cressida was éponine, brave and hopelessly lovelorn, who got to sing the prettiest song in the show.

Despite the fact that riding the bus—every aspect of it, beginning with checking the online timetables—made Avery feel daring and capable as few things ever had (and she had enough self-awareness to see the humor in this: Sheltered Private School Girl Rides City Bus!), she had trouble envisioning herself doing it after dark. For a minute or two, she actually considered telling her mother about the play and Cressida and about her own quest for truth, no matter how ugly the truth might be. Weirdly, she believed her mother would probably be understanding and supportive, even though she’d worry, the way she always worried, that Avery might get hurt. It would be just like her to even offer to drop Avery off and pick her up. But then Avery reminded herself that she might never, as long as she lived, learn the story of the torn-out journal page, and she resolved to leave her mother out of her quest for truth entirely. So Avery had gotten out the cash she’d saved from babysitting and had taken a taxi.

There in the last row of the too-warm auditorium, a funny thing happened while Avery watched Cressida perform: she forgot why she’d come to watch her in the first place. She forgot to imagine Cressida talking to Avery’s father at work or in a restaurant; she forgot to wonder exactly who pursued whom and why. All she could think about was éponine and her wild courage and her lost-cause love for Marius. Her voice—Cressida’s voice—was pure and water clear and heart piercing and suffused with sorrow. When éponine died, in Marius’s arms, tears slid down Avery’s cheeks for the girl dying in the soft rain, all her devotion and valor come to nothing.

While the actors were still taking their bows, Avery slipped out of the auditorium, went to the restroom, and stood in the last stall for a long time, waiting for the bathroom to empty out and for the clamor in the hallway outside to dwindle. When the school seemed quiet enough, Avery started to open the door of the stall, but three girls came in, talking.

“She’s so full of herself it’s honestly kind of sickening,” said one.

“Sarah was way better,” said another.

“Even if she can sing, she’s still a slut who goes after old men.”

Avery had heard other people malign Cressida like this, and even though her mom had taught her that the word slut was a weapon in a mean game to hurt girls and keep them from getting too strong and powerful, had taught her to never, ever use it, hearing the word applied to Cressida had mostly brought her relief. Better that Cressida be called a slut than that her dad be called a pedophile. But now, with éponine’s voice still resonating inside her head, Avery could not reconcile the incandescent girl on the stage with those ugly rumors and that ugly label. She felt the urge to step out of the stall and confront those girls, call them jealous and petty, but she knew how little sense that made: Avery defending Cressida. So she kept quiet and waited until the bathroom door had swung shut behind the girls, then she called the taxi dispatcher, asked that she be picked up a block from the school, and she pushed open the school’s atrium doors and stepped out into the cold air.

As she hurried down the sidewalk, she saw, ahead of her, a man with a cane moving painstakingly toward what seemed to be a back entrance to the school, and Avery paused, concerned about his unsteadiness, thinking she should help him but not knowing how. And while she stood unsure of what to do, the door opened, and there was Cressida, wearing sweatpants and carrying a backpack. A light hung over the doorway, and its yellowish glow fell onto Cressida’s face, which still held traces of stage makeup and which blossomed into a sunburst, child-sweet smile at the sight of the man.

The man said, “Look at my superstar girl! You were amazing, sweetheart!”

Cressida laughed and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

And the man used both arms to wrap her in a hug.

“Careful, Dad,” said Cressida, pulling back and kissing his cheek. “You need to keep that cane on the ground.”

Her father said, “You worry too much, Cressie.”

“Here,” said Cressida. She slung her backpack over both shoulders, took hold of her father’s arm, the one not holding on to the cane, and the two of them—father and daughter—walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot.





Chapter Fourteen





Ginny


“My friend Nancy is crazy about Mose and she’s a dog therapist, and she says that your painting captured Mose’s inner dog perfectly, down to the smallest whisker,” said Daniel.

It was evening at the dog park, almost dusk. A few low shreds of pansy-purple cloud and a ribbon of orange edging the field were all that remained of the sunset. One morning, a few weeks ago, Daniel had mentioned that, in addition to mornings, he and Mose sometimes came for a walk after he got off work.

“Oh, so you’ve been holding out on me and Mag,” I’d said. “I see how it is.”

“He’s probably got a whole different set of friends at night who think they’re his only dog park people,” Mag had said.

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