We Run the Tides(27)

For the next few nights I sense something strained on the anchorman’s face. I imagine he’s thinking, I came back early from vacation for this? I came back so I could repeat variations on the same paragraph every night?

On the seventh night of the same paragraph being read aloud, “Sea Cliff home” is changed to “Sea Cliff mansion.” “She is recuperating with her family in their Sea Cliff mansion,” the anchorman says, his eyes more resentful than ever.

“Mansion?” I say to my dad. “That’s got to be good for resale value, right?”

My father doesn’t take the bait for a real estate discussion. “Don’t you want to call her?” he asks instead.

“No,” I say. But later that night I dial the number I first memorized when I was eight. It rings and her father answers.

“Hi, it’s Eulabee.”

“Hello Eulabee,” her father says.

“I want to say how relieved and how . . . happy I am that Maria Fabiola is back home.”

“We are, too.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “I mean . . .”

“She’s not taking any calls right now, Eulabee,” he says. His voice has always been smooth and calm, like that of a hypnotist. “But I’ll let her know you’re thinking of her. It will mean a lot to Grace that you called, too.” It takes me a second to realize that Grace is Maria Fabiola’s mother. Why will she care that I called? Has Maria Fabiola said something to her about me?

“Okay,” I say. “Well, say hey to Grace, too. Happy New Year!” I hang up the phone, feeling stupid.

*

SCHOOL STARTS UP AGAIN the first week of January. On my first day back, I walk to school by myself, the usual way. I see Faith and Julia walking ahead of me. Maria Fabiola’s not with them. Maybe she’ll arrive late, I think. Like a celebrity.

But when I enter the auditorium for morning assembly I see Maria Fabiola seated in the front row, between her mother and Mr. Makepeace. When assembly starts, Ms. Catanese, the head of upper school, announces that “in light of recent events,” the school therapist, Ms. Ross, will now be almost full-time. Ms. Ross bounds onto the stage, wearing glasses and a dress patterned with lemons. “I just want to let you know that all your secrets are safe with me,” she says. She pauses, as though about to say something else, but then walks off the stage.

My classmates spend the assembly sneaking peeks at Maria Fabiola, and she spends the assembly staring out the window. I once watched an after-school special where a girl did this when her parents were going through a divorce. With a jolt I realize I saw this special, with Maria Fabiola, at her house.

Ms. Mc. is sick so our classes are combined for science and we have a substitute teacher. Maria Fabiola stares out the window. Midway through class, the substitute walks to the side of the classroom and positions herself in Maria Fabiola’s line of view. “How many chromosomes does each human cell normally contain?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Maria Fabiola replies.

“Excuse me?” says the sub.

“The police say I don’t have to answer any questions that make me feel uncomfortable.”

The sub’s face contorts itself and her eyes squint for a minute until . . . bam. I can see the very instant that she recognizes Maria Fabiola from the news. Her eyes widen, her posture straightens. “No, of course not,” she says. “Of course you don’t have to answer that.”

Then the sub calls on Stephanie, who lives near Dianne Feinstein in Presidio Terrace.

“Okay, good,” the sub says to Stephanie, even though she’s gotten the answer wrong. The sub’s eyes are still on Maria Fabiola, and she’s too distracted by the presence of fame to notice.

As for me, I am invisible.

*

FOR WEEKS AFTER MARIA FABIOLA’S RETURN, a busy, bustling feeling takes over Sea Cliff. The gardeners prune the plants and hedges with more zest and precision, dog owners take their dogs on longer walks, with longer leashes, and the mailman delivers letters and packages with renewed energy, often while whistling an old-timey tune.

I go home directly after school each day so I can intercept the mailman before my mother returns from work. He arrives at the front of the house at 3:15. She usually kickstands her bike in the garden by 3:25. In the wake of my newfound solitude I’ve contacted several boarding schools and requested applications. I don’t want my parents to know that it’s my intention to go away for high school. My goal is to see where I’m accepted and then convince them my life here is intolerable. Application deadlines are approaching so I have to work fast.

It is with his new vigor that the mailman bounds up the steps one day shortly after the New Year with a cream-colored envelope addressed to me. The envelope, with my name written in calligraphy, contains an invitation to a celebration “in honor of Maria Fabiola’s safe return.” The party is being thrown by her godmother and will be held on a Friday night. I have never personally received an invitation like this before—one that’s addressed in calligraphy and contains a stamped postcard for my RSVP. I leave the invitation on the marble table in our entranceway where I place any correspondence I want my mother to see but don’t want to personally hand to her. My grade on my Salinger paper, for example.

“Well, this is nice,” my mother says. She’s standing on the threshold of my room, the invitation in hand. I’m on my bed reading Kundera.