We Run the Tides(14)

My parents’ faces look suddenly strained, and I know the forced smiles and tightness around the eyes has to do with me. I turn and see Maria Fabiola’s parents. Their arms are linked as though they’re the bride and groom.

“Where’s Maria Fabiola tonight?” my father asks her dapperly dressed father as we stand together in an awkward pentagram.

“She’s at a sleepover at a new girl’s house. Dutch family.”

“Have you met her?” my father asks me.

“She’s in my class.”

My mother makes small talk with Maria Fabiola’s mom about Halloween and how many bags of candy they’re going to purchase this year. Halloween is a big deal in Sea Cliff. Residents go crazy giving out dollar bills or King Size Hershey’s bars, and as a result each house gets hundreds of trick-or-treaters before 7 p.m. Kids from other parts of the city are dropped off in Sea Cliff by their parents because they know they’ll take home better loot here than anywhere else.

Another couple who just moved to the neighborhood joins the conversation. “I hear they’re going to try to clamp down on outsiders coming in,” says the woman, who has an accent I can’t place.

“They really should,” says her husband. “It’s not right for us to be spending all that money on kids that don’t live here.”

I excuse myself to use the restroom.

The bathroom is large with a wooden sculpture of a boy peeing. When I wash my hands I use a small towel that I understand I’m supposed to toss into a special bin. Outside the bathroom door I hear someone ask, “Are you waiting in line?” Then I hear the response: “No, I’m just escaping talking to someone I don’t want to talk to. You know how it is.” I recognize the voice—it’s Maria Fabiola’s mother. I use another towel just because I can and toss it in the bin as well. Then I take a towel and without even using it, discard it in the bin.

When I exit the bathroom I offer Maria Fabiola’s mother a fake smile. I scan the room for my parents—I don’t want to go back to them. I spot an abandoned glass of champagne on a small table. I stealthily pick it up, down it, and then wander into the part of the house I know best: the TV room. I think I might find the younger brother there watching TV with his friends and I can show them how grown up I look in my black taffeta dress. I walk into the TV room and the screen is dark, most of the lights in the room are off. I look through the window to see what my house looks like from here. It looks like a regular house, I think. On my bedroom window I see a faded sticker alerting firemen that, in the event of a fire, there’s a child living in that bedroom. The sticker was placed there years ago and I’d forgotten about it. Now I vow to remove it.

“Aren’t you the neighbor girl?” a voice asks. I turn. It’s Wes, the older brother, the groom-to-be. He’s sitting by himself in the dark.

I nod and then realize he probably can’t see me very well so I say, “Yeah.”

We are both silent as we listen to the sounds of the party swell in the other part of the house.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out there?” I ask. “I mean, isn’t the party for you?”

“Well, in theory it’s for me, but it’s really for my parents.”

I nod again. He’s blond and wearing a tuxedo. He looks like a groom in a movie, which makes him appear more handsome than he is. More handsome than his younger brother.

“My head hurts so I came in here,” he says.

I know he was in a major hockey accident at Dartmouth. He came home to recuperate for a while. The maid would hang his clothes outside the laundry-room window. One day his clothes were no longer there and I knew he was better, and had gone back to New Hampshire.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Just when I’m stressed.”

“Why are you stressed now?”

“Because I’m getting married,” he says.

His speech is slurred and I wonder if this is the result of the accident or alcohol. I continue standing in front of the turned-off TV and I shift from one foot to another. Tonight I’m wearing black shoes with short heels. I’m not used to them but don’t want to take them off because that would show I’m not used to them.

“Have you ever heard of that experiment they do with frogs?” he asks.

“Which one?” I say, and tap my fingers on my chin, as though I’m running through all the experiments I’ve studied involving frogs.

“The one where they put a frog in boiling water?”

“I think so,” I lie.

“They’ve done studies where if they put a frog in boiling water, it jumps out right away.”

“That makes sense,” I say.

“Well, they’ve also done studies where if they put a frog in, let’s say, medium-temperature water, and then slowly keep turning up the heat until it’s boiling, the frog won’t jump out.”

“It won’t?”

“No, it won’t. And you know what happens to the frog?”

“What?”

“It dies,” he says. “This is a scientific fact.”

He leans back on the leather couch and takes a sip of his drink. I think about what he’s said. I assume it’s a metaphor for marriage.

“So, you’re the frog,” I finally say.