Perfect Page 11

  "It really does."

  I smiled at this, Ape Face repeating everything I say because she wants me to know she's with me. We're in it together.

  "Should I go get the rest of the stuff now?" she asked. "From upstairs?"

  "Yeah. You do that. I'll check on the food."

  "Right. You check on the food." April started walking out of the room, then stopped and turned hack. "Isabelle?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I think Daddy would really like this. That we're doing this, I mean. If he could see us right now. You know what I mean?"

  I felt my eyes sting when she said that. I had to bite my lip and swallow hard. "Yeah, April. I know what you mean.

  Aunt Weezy was there with us when my mother walked in the room. "Hi, Bethy," she said softly. And then, "Happy Hanukkah."

  My mother looked at Aunt Weezy. She looked at me. And April. And the table, the menorah, Daddy's chair with April's family tree project propped on top of it, the whole thing. You could see her eyes moving around like crazy.

  "You can't be serious," she said.

  At first, nobody said anything.

  Then, I broke the silence. "Well. We are. So, Happy Hanukkah."

  "Happy Hanukkah, Mommy," said April.

  "Happy Hanukkah?" my mother said. "Happy Hanukkah?"

  Now she turned and looked at Aunt Weezy again, as though she needed to talk to an adult about this. Aunt Weezy just nodded, gestured to the empty chair for her to sit down.

  I was too busy watching my mother's face to care if she was standing or sitting. I knew she was going to lose it any second now. Which is exactly what she did.

  "How could you let them do this, Louise? I can't do this! I can't!"

  "Bethy," Aunt Weezy said quietly, walking toward my mother with her arms outstretched.

  "No!" my mother said. "There's no reason to do this! No reason!" And then, to me and April, "Why did you do this? I told you we weren't going to do this."

  "Bethy," Aunt Weezy said again.

  My mother didn't answer. She just turned and ran out of the room.

  Aunt Weezy came around to our side of the table, giving each of us a quick hug. "Girls. Sit tight. I'll be right back."

  Soon it was just me and April, alone again, and Ape Face was starting to ask a million questions. "Do you think she'll come back, Isabelle? Mom, I mean? Do you think she's really mad? ... Maybe we shouldn't have done this, you know? After she said not to?"

  I didn't answer.

  "Do you think we should just, you know ... start picking up"„ .

  "No!" I said. I knew my voice sounded sharp, but I didn't care. "We're not picking up anything. It's Hanukkah, and we're going to have Hanukkah."

  Ape Face did what a good sister should do in a situation like that: she shut up. She shut up and listened to directions.

  Together we walked to the head of the table where the menorah was, and picked up the lead candle, the Shamash. April held the Shamash while I lit the match, then we placed it in its holder at the same time.

  Just like we planned, I sang the first blessing, the one Daddy always did. "Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam asher kideshanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah."

  When it was April's turn, she looked scared. "I might mess up, okay, Isabelle? I'm not sure I remember the whole thing. I've been practicing, like you showed me, but I'm still not-"

  "Just do the best you can," I said. "I'll help you if you get stuck. Okay?"

  "Okay." April closed her eyes tight. "Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam, sheh' asah nissim l'avoteinu, ba-yamim ha-heim, ba-z'man ha-zeh.... Was that right? I thought it sounded pretty good."

  "It did," I said. "It was perfect."

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome," I said. "Now. Aunt Weezy was supposed to do the third blessing, and I don't exactly remember it. Do you?"

  April shook her head.

  "Okay." I walked back over to my chair and picked up the prayer book we'd found under my mother's bed. It was our father's, from when he was a boy.

  I turned to April. "God doesn't care if you don't have it memorized. Remember how Daddy used to say that?"

  She smiled. "Yeah."

  I walked back to the head of the table with the prayer book, turned to the third blessing. "On three, okay?"

  "On three," April said.

  "One, two, three ..."

  Even though we were singing from the book, not from memory, the words sounded warm and right filling the air. "Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam-"

  For a split second, in the middle of the blessing, I looked up. There they were in the doorway, my mother and Aunt Weezy, watching us. I sang louder. "Shehechey- anu, v'ki-y'manu, v'higiyanu, lazman hazeh!"

  Then I did a crazy thing, in front of everyone. I turned to my father's chair, which was empty except for the family tree project leaning against it, and I raised my water glass. "Happy Hanukkah, Daddy."

  Without my even glancing at her, April did the same thing. "Happy Hanukkah, Daddy."

  Then Aunt Weezy. "Happy Hanukkah, Jacob. We miss you.

  I turned to my mother, standing in the doorway. Tears running down her face, buckets of them. I watched as she walked slowly across the room and sat down at the table. She didn't say a word, but she didn't have to. It was all right there.

  24

  FRIDAY WAS THE LAST DAY before winter break and school was a madhouse. Most of the teachers had just given up trying to teach and were showing movies instead. Not Minx, though. The minute we sat down, he handed out a new book.

  "To Kill a Mockingbird," Minx said, "is one of the great American novels. A coming-of-age story with a moral epicenter. For those of you who are considering a career in the law. . ."

  While Minx droned on and on, Georgie and I sat next to each other playing tic-tac-toe with pink nail polish.

  Denise Miller drew pictures of Minx with horns and a tail and passed them around the room.

  Peter Marsh and Dan Fosse made spitball shooters out of their ballpoint pens, firing at each other whenever Minx wasn't looking. Every five minutes, one of them would make a fart noise out of the side of their mouth, until Minx finally looked up, frowning. "What's going on here?"

  Dan said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Minx. My mother made me a Mexican omelet for breakfast, and you know what happens when I have beans for breakfast-"

  "Never mind," said Minx, and the whole class cracked up.

  Too bad Ashley wasn't there to see it. The room seemed empty without her. Brian King was completely hummed. He'd written an extraspecial Ashley poem, for Christmas.

  "I can send it to her, if you want," I told him. "I know where she's staying in Colorado."

  But Bri said no, thanks. He'd put it in her locker, so she'd have something waiting for her when she got back.

  Ashley left that morning for her ski trip. She stopped by my house before school, with presents.

  "You didn't have to do this, Ashley," I said, standing out on the porch with her while her mom sat in the driveway in her big black car.

  "I know I didn't have to," said Ashley. "I wanted to."

  "But I don't have anything for you!"

  "That's okay," she said. "I like giving presents better than getting them anyway. This one," Ashley handed me something small and square, wrapped in blue tissue, "this is for April. It's a new field hockey hall. The best kind. Don't tell her, though! I want her to he surprised."

  "She'll love it," I said, meaning it.

  'And this one's for your mom." She handed me a green rectangle, a hook. "It's a journal. She's an English teacher, right? She must like to write."

  I nodded.

  "And this," Ashley said, holding out a tiny silver package with a gold ribbon, "this is for you. Open it later." She handed me a white envelope, a card. "When you're alone, okay?"

  "Okay," I said. "Ash. You really didn't have to do all this."

  She hugged me, hard. "I wanted to."

  I hugged her back.
<
br />   Ashley pulled away suddenly, glanced over at the car where her mom was sitting. "It feels strange. Without my dad."

  "I know it does."

  Ashley looked at me. "Oh, Isabelle. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I said that. I still have a dad, and you ..."

  I shook my head. "It's okay."

  "No, it's not." Ashley looked down, then up again, right at me. "Here I am going on and on about my dad moving out, and-"

  "It's okay. Really."

  "Still. I'm really sorry."

  "I know."

  "No. I mean it. And if, when I get back, you want to talk, you call me. I mean it. `Kay?"

  "'Kay."

  "Promise?"

  "Yeah."

  Ashley leaned in again, hugged me hard. "I'm really going to miss you.

  "Hey," I said. "You're crushing the presents."

  She pulled back, half laughing, half crying. "Merry Christmas, Isabelle." Then she turned and ran down the steps, to the car where her mom was waiting, before I could say a word.

  It was the weirdest feeling, standing on the porch in my slippers, watching her go. Sadness and relief at the same time.

  As the car pulled out of the driveway, I pictured Ashley on the slopes in Aspen, whizzing down the mountain in her ski outfit, something blue and shiny, with her hair flying out behind her. I pictured her in the lodge by a roaring fire, taking off her boots, while guys with tans and names like Biff and Lance fought over who got to rub her feet.

  Maybe it was more realistic to picture her shoving down her fifth chocolate chip pancake, or throwing up in a sink somewhere, or crying and crying because her dad wasn't there with them, but that's not what I was picturing. That's not how I wanted it to be for her.

  "Merry Christmas, Ash," I whispered. And walked hack inside to get ready for school.

  25

  EVEN THOUGH IT WAS VACATION, we had Group as usual. Me and Mathilde and Dawn and Lila and Rachel-who was back, still wearing a ton of black eyeliner but nicer to he around.

  We sat in our circle, talking about Christmas. "It's supposed to he this really happy day," Mathilde said quietly, "hut sometimes it's not. I mean, not in my house." And Dawn said, "Mine either."

  The rest of us nodded.

  Trish said, "All right. Good! Let's talk about it. What makes the holidays so hard?"

  At that, Mathilde and Lila both started crying and Trish passed the tissues. Dawn walked around the circle, giving out hugs.

  Everyone started talking then, one at a time. I sat quietly, listening to Mathilde tell us about eating all the Christmas cookies her mother made, dozens of them, and then lying about it, saying the dog did it. Rachel talked about her father drinking a whole bottle of scotch and passing out at the dinner table, right in the middle of the toast.

  I listened to everyone's story, each one surprising and not. I had no idea their families were so messed up. And yet, it made sense that we were all here.

  I was so quiet, the only one in the circle not talking.

  "Isabelle?" Trish said, when everyone else had gone. "Anything you'd like to share?"

  "No," I said. And then, feeling everyone's eyes on me, "I mean ... give me a second."

  "Take your time," Trish said gently. "We're in no rush."

  I sat for a while with my eyes closed, just breathing. "Okay," I said finally. "It's a hard time of year in my house because ... because my dad isn't here with us anymore. Because he died. And we all miss him so much we want to explode."

  The words sounded so strange coming out of my mouth, like they belonged to somebody else. For a second I wanted to hide. But then I looked up at everyone and saw that they were looking right back at me, nodding. Getting it.

  I reached nay hand out for a tissue, as though holding one would help me talk better. And in a way, it did.

  The next day I was back in the same room, talking to Trish. It was Christmas Eve and we weren't supposed to he meeting, but Trish changed her mind at the last minute and called me to come in. Apparently she was proud of me, for finally opening my mouth in Group, and she wanted to tell me so.

  "How did it feel yesterday?" Trish asked. "Talking about your dad?"

  "Not bad," I said. "Weird at first. Everyone was looking at me, you know? But then, after I got going, not had."

  "Let me tell you somet'iing, Isabelle. The more you talk, the easier it gets."

  "Yeah?"

  "Absolutely."

  We sat quietly for a moment. Then I told Trish about Penelope Lutz. About how Penelope was really Ashley Barnum. From Group.

  Trish nodded, like she wasn't all that surprised.

  I went on, saying how Ashley had given me a Christmas present and how I hadn't opened it yet. And I wasn't sure I was going to.

  Trish said, "Why not?"

  I thought before I spoke. "I guess because ... whatever is in the box could never be as good as what I imagine is in the box. You know?" I wasn't sure Trish would get what I meant, until I saw that she was nodding.

  "You might be surprised, though," Trish said. "Pleasantly."

  "I might," I said, thinking about it. "Maybe I'll read the card first, see what it says. Then decide."

  Trish smiled, not telling me what to do either way. That's how it is with her, not pushing so much as making you think.

  "How are things with your mom?" Trish asked.

  Oh. Right. That. "I don't know. Better, I guess. I mean, at least we're starting to talk about him some. She still can't say his name without crying, but she doesn't run out of the room or anything. And she's seeing this person, this grief therapist guy that my aunt found for her. Once a week. So ..."

  "Oh, Isabelle. That's great news. That's really a step in the right direction."

  "I guess. She still has a long way to go though. You know. She's still a mess."

  Trish nodded, rocked a little in her chair. "And the bingeing and purging? How are you doing with that?"

  This time I smiled. "Well. I didn't throw up at all yesterday. And I haven't thrown up yet today. So that's, let's see ... twenty-four, thirty-two ... thirty-five hours and counting."

  Trish leaned forward, her eyes on mine. "Thirty-five hours? Isabelle!"

  "And counting."

  "Isabelle!" Trish said again. Then, softly, "That's wonderful."

  When it was time to go, I stood in the doorway for a long time, looking around the room at everything, squinting at my old friend the yawning dog. "Trish?" I said finally. "How come this room always smells like Cheez-Its?"

  Trish smiled, walked over to her desk, opened a drawer. There was a moment of crackling cellophane before she held up the Cheez-Its bag. "Stay for a snack?"

  I laughed, shook my head. "No, thanks. I've got to get home. Mom and April are waiting for me."

  You might think it's a crazy way to spend Christmas Eve, standing in the den with your mom and your sister, not hanging ornaments on a Christmas tree, but hanging pictures of your dead dad on the wall. You might think it's nuts, but it's not.

  I am up on the ladder because I am the only one not afraid of falling. April's job is to hand me the hammer and the nails when I need them. Mom passes me the framed photos, one at a time. One at a time, up they go. The memories that used to live here.

  Mom and Daddy on their wedding day, all shining eyes and white teeth. Daddy and me at a football game when I was three, me on his shoulders holding a baton. The four of us out on the porch in summer, April on Mom's lap and me on Daddy's, all making monkey faces. Best of all, the picture of Daddy in high school, wearing his baseball uniform, so handsome you can't believe you're related.

  We're hanging some new ones too, ones Aunt Weezy took of the three of us. Me, Mom, and April, out in the backyard, all huddled together because it's cold. If you look close, you can see the first snowflakes of the season, just starting to fall.

  April keeps telling me that I'm hanging the pictures crooked.

  I grit my teeth and swallow hard. Instead of saying "Shut up, Ape Face," I say, "Just te
ll me which way to go.

  Finally we have them all hung, straight and even and beautiful. We stand back and admire our work.

  "It looks great," says April. "Huh, Mom? Huh, Isabelle? It looks really great, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah," I say. "It really does."

  At first my mother just stands there, nodding, looking awfully close to crying.

  "Mom?" I say.

  Then she leans over, kisses my forehead. She grabs April, kisses her forehead too.

  I don't think she can talk right now, my mom. But that's okay. Maybe she'll talk later. For now, there's the three of us, holding each other up.

  A freelance writer and camp director, NATASHA FRIEND has taught at the Brearley School in New York City and Ecole Bilingue in Cambridge. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, Erik, and baby, Jack. Perfect is her first novel.

  MILKWEED EDITIONS

  Founded in 1979, Milkweed Editions is the largest independent, nonprofit, literary publisher in the United States. Milkweed publishes with the intention of making a humane impact on society, in the belief that good writing can transform the human heart and spirit. Within this mission, Milkweed publishes in five areas: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, children's literature for middle grade readers, and the World As Home-books about our relationship with the natural world.

  JOIN US

  Milkweed depends on the generosity of foundations and individuals like you, in addition to the sales of its books. In an increasingly consolidated and bottom-line driven publishing world, your support allows us to select and publish hooks on the basis of their literary quality and the depth of their message. Please visit our Web site (www.milkweed.org) or contact us at (800) 5206455 to learn more about our donor program.

  INTERIOR DESIGN BY CHRISTIAN FUNFHAUSEN.

  TYPESET IN I I/I5 GOUDY OLDSTYLE.

  PRINTED ON ACID-FREE 50# FRASER TRADE BOOK PAPER BY FRIESEN CORPORATION.