In Her Skin(12)

“What is it?”

“Is Temple glad that I’m back?”

Mrs. Lovecraft’s forehead falls. She reaches for my hand, and hers is cool but mine is hot with fear. Is this where she says it’s not working out? That I’ll have to go away?

“We couldn’t be happier,” she says, still smiling.

I may not know every word, but I am a close listener, and We is not She. Mrs. Lovecraft sees I’m upset. She twists to face me and pulls my hands to her chest.

“Oh, hey! Did I tell you we have something wonderful planned for tonight?”

We have something wonderful planned. Still, We. When will We narrow down to You?

“Vivi?” Mrs. Lovecraft waves her hand in front of my face. “We’re going to the symphony!”

*

There is a lot to this symphonying. A man came to fix Mrs. Lovecraft’s hair right at the kitchen counter, which was both gross and fascinating. When he saw mine, Mrs. Lovecraft murmured, “Whatever you can do,” a reference to the baby bangs I cut a month ago using nail scissors and a cracked compact mirror. The answer was a few passes with an iron that made things worse. In the end, he used extra-strength goop to slick back the bangs, and bobby pins from his magic black bag to tack my hair into a “messy bun” at the back of my head. I like the feel of it when I move. I can see myself in the door of the wall oven, and pulling hair away from my face shows off stuff I’ve never noticed. Like, that the line from my ear to my chin is pretty, or that my hazel eyes, while wrong, are also big and bright.

We are late because you have the responsibilities that make you you, which means precalculus homework, a makeup cello lesson, and a meeting with someone called an organizational specialist. Mr. Lovecraft shoves the sleeve of his tux up to check his watch for the third time. He is a man tuxes were made for, but I try not to notice his hotness because he is my dad now and that is wrong. I shimmy around, uncomfortable sitting on the counter stool in a white collared dress that I would not have picked, but that is clean and nice, and thank God I figured out how to get tights on because Vivi was definitely a tights-wearer. When you finally come downstairs, you take my breath away. My expectation of fancy symphony clothes involved satin; and maybe, fur, and this is what I imagined you’d be wearing, but you are schooling me and I like it. Your black sweater is supertight, and you’re wearing a full, silvery-gray, stiff skirt, which is the opposite of tight, so tight on top, fairy godmother on the bottom, and bam: you are perfection. Instantly you teach me that my ideas of elegant are babyish, and I have a lot to learn from you, and I will and this is good.

“Darling, you’re perfect,” Mrs. Lovecraft says, fingertips floating to her neck.

Mr. Lovecraft rises from his stool. “And we’re off!”

Mrs. Lovecraft swoops to you, clutching a glittery bag with one hand and kissing you lightly on the forehead while you text and ignore her. Watching that kiss pokes me, as do all mothery things that Momma’s last boyfriend took away from me, and I cannot get out of my own way about this, and I should because your eyes are suddenly on me.

“You look nice,” you toss out, like you just remembered I’m here. I spent my day in a paper smock and stirrups thinking about Wolf but mostly about you, while you were at school, back in with your friends and things, and I am less important than I was yesterday. You said I was what you’d wished for, but you don’t act like it. You’re more interested in your phone.

“Are you mad about something?” you say flatly.

“No,” I stammer, uncurling my balled fists. “I mean, what?”

You look to your mother. “She looks mad. Not now, but before.”

Mrs. Lovecraft’s brows pitch downward for a second. Then she laughs nervously and ducks into the hall.

“Vivi, I bought you a coat,” she calls out. “You’ll need to rip the tags off.”

You squeeze your eyes and cock your head, studying me. I don’t want to be studied. I slide off the stool to follow Mrs. Lovecraft out the door. I don’t need to wait for you; we’re not attached at the hip. My loyalty’s not to you, it’s to your mother and father—my mother and father.

Christ.

As we reach Symphony Hall, I start to shiver. It’s the dress’s fault. I don’t love wearing dresses, and even with the babyish tights, I’m cold. Spring in Boston is colder than it ever feels in Florida, and one winter on these godforsaken streets was enough for me. The snow that came days before Christmas was exciting for five minutes, until I realized snow can kill you when you live in a tent. But I don’t live in a tent anymore, I live with these people, and we are seconds from warmth. I’ve got this.

You give me a strange smile across the seat. I smile back coolly.

We park in an underground lot that surfaces on Massachusetts Avenue and wait until a cop whistles, signaling that we can cross. I stay close to Mrs. Lovecraft’s heels as we enter under a neon sign that reads POPS in shouty red bulbs. A million people jam into the fancy lobby, and is this how we keep a low profile? Walls are painted gold, and stairs wind up, carpeted with velvet. I am inside a massive jewel box, with columns and high arched doorways and whirling servers balancing champagne on trays. The Lovecrafts hand me a program that says this is a special night for Boston executives: Presidents at the Pops. Would Vivi have come to this? There are a few kids, in ties and froufrou dresses and patent leather shoes. As we mingle our way through the lobby, Mrs. Lovecraft comes close to my ear, saying Boston is more like a big town than a city. This is an explanation for the people who stop us every couple of steps to chat. I am introduced as the Lovecrafts’ “miracle,” and I feel you stiffen every time it’s uttered. You do not like this kind of attention, wouldn’t court it if you had a choice, and this is going to be a problem for us.