The Take-Over Friend, page 9
“I thought I was sleeping over at your house.”
“I’m staying. I’m having a great time.” My breath made clouds in the air as I spoke. “If you’re not having any fun, you should go. You can sleep over tomorrow night instead.”
“You want me to leave?”
“No. I just don’t want you to stay if you’re not having a good time.”
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “I’ll wait.”
I turned and left her there. The rest of us lay on our backs on the cold ground, trying to let the snow fall into our mouths. The party soundtrack had to turned to slow songs, and the flakes, lit by the firelight, were falling toward us. It was magical. Until I became aware of Josh and Stevie lying next to each other, their mittens touching, their boots tapping together in time to the music.
At eleven thirty, Josh’s sister offered us rides home in two shifts. Right away, Josh suggested Sonja and I go with the first shift. “Sonja’s sleeping at your house, right, Frances?”
I was a little taken aback. When we climbed into the car, I called out, “Thanks, Josh. Great party.”
But he didn’t hear me. He and Stevie were leaning against each other by the fire, faces lit by flames. That’s when I realized there were exactly three girls and three boys left behind, and they were sitting in couples.
Sonja saw me looking. “Second party’s about to begin.”
Right after I turned out the lights, Sonja whispered, “Stevie and Josh. Aren’t you relieved?”
I hadn’t spoken the whole way home, and I didn’t answer now. I was trying to figure out my own feelings. I didn’t feel relieved at all. I felt easily replaced. It had taken less than one day for Josh to shift his feelings to someone else. Just like it took one day for Lindsay to stop all communication after she moved to the suburbs. What did that say about me?
“You could’ve had him.” Sonja nestled under the covers on her side. “You probably still could, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s not,” I mumbled. I didn’t want to talk about it.
As we lay there in the dark, I could hear Sonja breathing loudly. “Can I just say one thing?” She turned to face me in the dark. “Tonight at the party? You didn’t care if I froze or felt out of place. And you know what really gets me? We had a plan for me to sleep over, and you were just willing to cancel so you could stay and flirt with Josh, even though you don’t really want Josh. You just don’t want anyone else to have him either. Maybe it’s the same with me. You want a best friend but you don’t want to work at being a best friend.”
I lay completely still. Her words felt a little bit true, but not entirely true. I was not a person who knew immediately what I felt, and I needed to sort my feelings, like lights and darks in the laundry basket. I was making piles in my mind—Sonja’s perspective and my perspective.
“Even now,” she said, “I have no idea what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about what you just said,” I told her.
Sonja sat up, her foot pressing into my hip. “Can I be honest? You always try to be so nice, but really you hide behind nice. You’re actually very passive aggressive. Sweet little Frances Tannen. Easy one. Underneath? Control freak.”
I was so stung by her words, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Besides I wasn’t sure what passive aggressive meant.
“See? You control by going silent.”
I couldn’t listen to her anymore. I was sick of everyone. Sick of Josh’s insincere wish to be my boyfriend. Sick of Sonja’s words. Sick of my brother’s put-downs and my know-it-all-sister’s advice. Sick of my mother’s Post-its and my father’s mood shifts. Sick of the tension in our house. Mostly I was sick of my life. I felt everyone took a piece of me, and there was nothing left over for myself.
“Fine.” Sonja pulled out her cell. “I’ll go home then.”
I listened as she called her mother to come pick her up. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “No, I can’t stay here.” Then she gathered her things into her backpack and left.
I was relieved when the door shut behind her. I needed time to think.
Five minutes later, I heard a tap at my window. I looked out to see Sonja lobbing her mittens against the glass. She’d pulled on her boots and wore a hooded jacket over her pajamas.
I went downstairs and opened the back door. She stood crying in the fresh snow. I had never seen Sonja cry. She lost her beauty when she cried. Her face pinched around the nose and her eyes swelled. I glanced at the empty street. “Isn’t your mom coming?”
She shook her head. “My mother would never come pick me up at this hour. She’s passed out in bed.” Her eyelashes glistened from tears. “I faked the call.”
We stood outside, the ground covered in a layer of white. It was so quiet, winter quiet. I could hear both of us breathe, little puffs of hot air coming out of our mouths. I glanced up at the moon and stars. I couldn’t tell if the brightest star was a satellite or real. Light years away, if it was a real star. I always felt a little lost when I thought about time that way, a different kind of lost, as if nothing at this moment in time really mattered in the context of star time. And in some strange way that was the great leveler, distances that made loneliness seem irrelevant. I felt a little freer. I moved back inside and nodded for Sonja to come too.
When we climbed into bed, she whispered, “I didn’t think you’d let me leave.”
“I thought you wanted to leave.”
“You are very pretty when you’re angry,” she told me. “You should get very angry at Gravy.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t want her turning my feelings into a joke. I wanted her to hear me, my words and my silences.
“Are we okay?” She reached over and patted my arm. “We got through our first tiff.”
I smiled at the word tiff.
15
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I invited Sonja for dinner so she could meet my sister. Mom had gone to pick her up at the airport. We were sitting in the den with Dad when we heard the garage door open, and, a minute later, my sister’s voice calling, “Smells great in here. Lasagna?”
As soon as Ali set down her purse, Sonja stuck out her hand. “I’m Sonja, it’s so great to meet you, Alison.”
Dad gave my sister a big hug. “I’ve told her all about you.”
Ali rolled her eyes. “It’s hard being the most mature one in the family.”
“I know,” Sonja agreed. “I have the exact same problem.”
Right away I felt Sonja’s words landed differently in my sister’s presence.
My sister asked me, “Are we watching later?”
“Dirty Dancing,” I explained to Sonja. “We always watch it together.”
“I love that film.”
“Sorry, this is a family ritual.” Ali shook her head. “No friends allowed.”
At that moment, my sister’s cell rang. We all knew it was Michael Peese, Ali’s high-school boyfriend. Even after three years, he always seemed to know the exact hour her plane landed. She smiled at Dad. “Don’t worry. I didn’t invite him to dinner.”
“Does he still drive a Hummer?”
Ali lifted her fingers like scissors and cut the air. “I’ve cut the umbilical, Dad.”
Meaning she wasn’t going to engage in this conversation. There were many conversations my sister no longer engaged in. Sometimes I felt less of her came home each time she returned.
“Just tonight,” Mom said, passing the plates of salad, “let’s not have any arguments.” Her glance was aimed at Dad.
“Seriously.” Dad swallowed a bite of salad. “Don’t you think it’s a little egotistical? Driving a Hummer when our entire planet is endangered by global warming?”
“Big car, big ego,” Sonja agreed. “That’s my opinion.”
Silence poured in around Sonja’s words, setting them off from the rest of the conversation. I looked down at my plate, embarrassed.
“I’m not taking the bait, Dad. In case you didn’t notice.” Ali had this strange mixture of Mom’s delicate beauty and Dad’s strong opinions.
I passed Ali the French bread. “Sonja’s thinking of applying to Oberlin.”
“You’re a psych major, right?” Sonja asked. “My grandfather was a psychiatrist. He left me his books. You’re welcome to borrow them.”
“I have plenty to read, thanks.” My sister repelled Sonja, her magnetic field keeping my best friend outside the family circle. I felt it, and I suspected Sonja felt it too.
The conversation turned to Will and his college application process. “Come to Oberlin,” Ali told him. “You’d love the music scene.”
Mom and Dad glanced at each other—it was no secret that they were seriously worried about how they were going to pay for two college tuitions.
Dad looked at Will. “State schools offer excellent educations if you apply yourself. Depends on whether you’re going to college to play soccer or study.”
“Can’t he do both?” Ali balked. “If we’re talking about tuition costs, then we should talk about tuition costs.”
“I think what your dad means,” Sonja interjected, “is that you can still get a decent education in-state.”
Ali’s eyes drilled right into Sonja. “I know what my father means.”
I kicked Sonja gently under the table. My sister had been home for less than an hour, but already she and my best friend hated each other.
“Don’t be fooled by Sonja’s agility with language,” Ali told me after Sonja had gone home. “There are lots of students like her at Oberlin.”
Ali didn’t know Sonja. And there were many kinds of closeness. Sonja’s and mine was different, and no one else could judge it. It was made of words, our own private language. And laughter, so much laughter my stomach had gotten firmer.
“When I first arrived at college,” Ali continued, “I had this huge friend-crush on Naomi. She was from LA, and she was beautiful and brilliant. I was thrilled when she asked if I wanted to be roommates this year.”
I stared at my sister, realizing how much I didn’t know about her anymore.
“We spent all our time together. Every. Spare. Moment. We actually began thinking the same way, which was really weird. But then, after about a month of living together, she quit talking to me. I asked if we could talk about it, and she denied that she had changed. I asked her if she wanted to go to a movie, and she said she had to go to the library to study. But an hour later, I ran into her at a party with a different friend, so I asked her about it, and she claimed they’d run into each other at the library. I knew she was lying, and I told her so. Then she actually drew an invisible line across the middle of our floor and said I had to ask her permission to cross it. That was it. I realized I had no idea who she really was.”
“What did you do?”
“Switched rooms.” Ali added, “Naomi and I still have cultural theory together, and we don’t even say hello. It’s like we’re complete strangers.”
“But why? Something must have happened.”
Ali shrugged. “Just remember, there’s close and there’s too close. Sonja already acts like she’s one of the family.”
“You barely know her.”
“I know you. Sometimes you’re too nice for your own good.” Ali’s voice was always so clear and sturdy and full of her life at college. I wondered if I’d ever feel so certain about anything.
That night, I got seven emails from Sonja, each one saying she hoped she hadn’t offended my sister. I didn’t write back. I didn’t know what to say without lying. I looked at Ravyn on the floor, her head lowered onto her paws, her tail extended on the ground. Vinnie was curled on the bed near my feet. Different dogs, and yet they followed each other through the house all day. I wondered if they ever felt alone, or if they ever felt betrayed, or if they simply accepted their differences. It must help, I thought, that they didn’t use words, that most of their lives were based on sniffing, listening, and watching—instinct instead of thinking.
16
We had a family tradition on Thanksgiving mornings. Every year, Ali, Mom, and I each chose a different kind of pie to make—apple, pecan, or pumpkin. We wore aprons with turkeys on them and played the Dixie Chicks, shimmying around the kitchen and bumping hips. After Thanksgiving dinner, we all took a slice of each pie and voted on the best one. It wasn’t a real competition because Mom made all the crusts. But we each prepared our own fillings. It was our ritual—Mom, Ali, and me, cooking together.
At nine a.m., there was a knock on the back door, and I was shocked to see Sonja step into our kitchen. “Nine-o-one.” Sonja took off her shoes. “Is this polite enough, Sally?”
Mom smiled. “Just.” She called nine the polite hour—no phone calls or friends arriving unannounced before nine a.m. or after nine p.m., unless it was an emergency.
“Oh good,” Sonja said, glancing at the counter. “You haven’t started the pies.”
My sister glared at me. She thought I’d invited Sonja, but I’d only mentioned that my favorite part of Thanksgiving was making pies with Mom and Ali in the morning.
Will hadn’t yet graced us with his presence. Dad was reading the paper on the couch, while Ali and I were drinking coffee at the table, waiting for Mom to get the pie dough ready. She was carving floral patterns in small squares of butter, sprinkling chopped parsley on top. She held up the plate. “Aren’t these pretty?”
Dad closed the newspaper. “I bet the Quills decorate their butter too.”
“Who are the Quills?” Sonja asked.
“Our neighbors,” I explained. “They wear plaid outfits and play Celtic music at the solstice. Every year they invite us to their recital, and Mom makes us go. Dad calls them the cozey-
wozey family, and he calls us the failed family.”
“We’re nice failures,” Dad said.
“In your version of a failed family, what holds it together?” Sonja asked.
“Bargains,” Dad said. “In most families, love is based on bargains.” Dad loved an audience, and Sonja was his audience this morning. “My children shovel the sidewalk, and I let them use the car. Bargain. I fix the screen door, and my wife pays the mortgage. Bargain.” He held up two Post-it notes that Mom had left on his placemat. Put the white wine in the refrigerator. Bring up extra chairs from the basement. “See? I obey and I get a serving of turkey. Bargain.” He winked at Mom.
Dad was provoking Mom, a bad sign. She loved her holidays, and Dad tolerated them by making fun of them. While Mom rolled the pie dough with fierce concentration, Ali locked eyes with me, silently telling me: Sonja has to leave.
“Sonja.” I stood up. “Come upstairs. I need to show you something.” But Sonja didn’t move. Ali refilled her mug with coffee and headed upstairs. “Aren’t you going to help make pies?” I called after her.
“I think you have enough help.”
“I’ll do hers,” Sonja said. “I’ve never made pies before. What do we do first?”
“Wait a minute.” I ran upstairs to Ali’s room. “Please, Ali, we always make pies together.”
“Then tell her to go,” Ali demanded. “Tell her today is a family day. You need to draw some boundaries, Fran. Then I’ll come down.”
But when I returned to the kitchen, Sonja had already donned an apron and was studying Mom’s technique of rolling dough. “Isn’t Ali coming?” Mom glanced at me.
I shook my head.
Mom went upstairs to talk to her, and five minutes later, she returned alone.
I stared at Ali’s pile of red and green apples. She’d gotten up early and laid out her ingredients. I handed Sonja the knife. “Start peeling.”
Pie-making. It was a small thing. But it was my favorite part of Thanksgiving.
Without Ali, it wasn’t the same.
When Sonja asked me to taste her filling, I took a bite. “Fine.” But my voice was tight, my heart too. I was angry at Sonja, and even angrier at myself. The best part of Thanksgiving was ruined. I’d let Sonja ruin it. When the pies were finished and the kitchen cleaned, I told Sonja, “I’ll walk you halfway home. I need to walk the dogs.” I wanted her out of the house, so I could spend the afternoon with Ali.
Mom always invited guests to our Thanksgiving dinner, people who had no place else to go. This year she invited a new teacher at her school, Priscilla, whose boyfriend, Maurizio, was visiting from Italy.
“Al tavolo,” Mom said, trying out her college Italian on Maurizio. “I’ve made a huge tachino.”
“Gobo-la, gobo-la, gobo-la.” Will attempted an Italian gobble.
Priscilla laughed. Mom’s friends always adored Will.
Mom drew Maurizio into the conversation. “My last year of college, I spent three months photographing an archeological dig in your country, an Etruscan burial site south of Rome. It was amazing how much we learned from seeing which objects were buried in the tombs.”
Maurizio nodded. “We learn much this way,” he said with an accent.
“Since we’re on the topic of death,” Dad said in a jovial tone. “Why don’t we go around the table, and everyone can say what they’d want to be buried with?”
Mom glanced at the nearly empty wine bottle at Dad’s end of the table, shooting Dad a meaningful stare.
“Will?” Dad glanced across the table. “What would you take with you to the grave?”
“My soccer ball.”
“Si.” Maurizio smiled. “Anché io.”
“You, Ali?” Dad poured himself another glass of wine.
She raised her fingers, made her scissors motion.
“You’d take your scissors.” Dad laughed. “Frances?”
“Vinnie’s ashes and my journals.”
“What if I want Vinnie’s ashes?” Will asked.
“You can have half,” I told him.
