My Life in Black and White Read online

  Right. I wondered what kind of “gentleman” my mother would think Ryan was if she saw him with his pants around his ankles.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said.

  “Believe it,” I told her.

  Then, to prove that Ryan wasn’t the perfect boyfriend she thought he was, I dropped the Taylor bomb. Not the gory details, just the facts: Ryan hooked up with Taylor. I saw it with my own eyes. That’s why I wasn’t taking her calls. That’s why she didn’t come to the barbecue. It had nothing to do with Jarrod and the accident; it was all about Taylor’s betrayal.

  “Well,” my mother said dryly. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  This wasn’t exactly the response I’d expected. “What do you mean it doesn’t surprise you?”

  My mother sighed. “Taylor has always been jealous of you, Alexa.”

  “Taylor has never been jealous of me,” I said, feeling a weird flash of defensiveness.

  “Oh, yes she has. From the minute she met you.”

  “Please,” I muttered.

  “Remember the toe shoes?”

  Ah, yes. The toe shoes. I don’t know why my mother loves to rehash this story, but she does. Here is how it goes: In second grade, I, like most of the girls in my class, wanted to be a prima ballerina. On Saturday mornings, a whole bunch of us would put on our black leotards and pink tights and sashay across the floor with Miss Decker, while she barked at us to suck in our stomachs and point our toes. Miss Decker was a taskmaster, but I loved her. I loved her long sinewy legs and the way her feet pointed out when she walked, like a duck’s. I loved the way she twisted her long, black hair into a bun so tight that not one hair escaped, no matter how fast she pirouetted. I loved how tickly her fingers were when they traced our spines as we bent over the barre, showing us the correct position. And I loved that Miss Decker always used me as the example of how to do things. “Class,” she would say. “Look at Alexa. See how Alexa is reaching her arms up high, like tree branches?”

  On my eighth birthday—a ballet party, of course, at Decker’s Dance Studio—Miss Decker surprised me with a new pair of pink satin toe shoes. This was a present no girl in the class had ever received and I had therefore not expected.

  “They’re really from your parents,” Taylor said as she examined the toe shoes in their tissue-paper nest.

  “No, they’re not,” I said. “They’re from Miss Decker.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Taylor said. “I’ve been to a jillion ballet birthday parties, and Miss Decker has never given a single present.”

  “Go ask my mom if you don’t believe me.”

  “Fine,” Taylor said. “I will.”

  I watched as she marched across the shiny wood floor to where my mother was bent over a table, slicing up triangles of pink-frosted cake. And I saw the look on her face as she heard the truth.

  “See?” I said, feeling a surge of triumph when Taylor returned. “I told you they were from Miss Decker.”

  Taylor said nothing more on the subject, but she never took another dance class after that. Within a week she had renounced ballet, calling it “stupid and sissy,” and moved on to horseback riding. In my mother’s mind, this was sour grapes on Taylor’s part, but all I know is after she quit, dance wasn’t fun anymore. By the end of second grade, I had quit, too.

  “Who cares about the toe shoes?” I said to my mother. “We were kids!”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s any less jealous of you now. That’s only one example—”

  “Whatever,” I muttered, walking to the freezer and taking out the ice cream. While she rambled on, I helped myself to another scoop of chocolate. Then strawberry. Then butter pecan.

  My mother stared at me. “Are you planning to eat all that ice cream?”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Didn’t you just have some?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, don’t you think you should—”

  “Okay!” I said, slamming my bowl on the counter. “Point taken!” I was raising my voice, something my mother abhorred, but I didn’t care. “Ice cream is fattening! The whole world is jealous of me! I get it! You’ve been telling me my whole life!”

  “I tell you!” she said, yelling right back. “Because you are a beautiful girl! And I love you! And you need to think about these things!”

  For a second, I was so stunned by the intensity of her reaction that I didn’t think about her words. Then they hit me.

  “Look at my face,” I said, a catch in my throat. “You call this beautiful?”

  My mother bent to retrieve the dishrag from the floor and resumed her wiping. When she spoke, her voice was calm again, measured. “You need to give it time. You’re still healing. It’s going to take a few weeks until—”

  “Look at me,” I said fiercely. “A few weeks aren’t going to make any difference.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true. The doctors said—”

  “I was there!” I heard the slightly hysterical rise in my voice that meant I was about to lose it. “‘Skin-graft scars will never look like ordinary skin.’ Direct quote! You act like everything’s fine and it’s not! You know it’s not! You can’t even look me in the face!”

  Before she could say another word, I ran out of the kitchen. When I got to my room, I slammed the door. Instead of crying, I was shaking all over. My entire body. Even my hair follicles.

  I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and stared at the ceiling. Johnny Depp stared back. While my eyes stayed dry, his looked as warm and wet as melted chocolates. I held his gaze for the longest time, wishing he would say something—anything—to tell me I wasn’t going crazy.

  In the morning, my dad knocked on my door. “I come bearing Ovaltine,” he said. As he handed me the glass, I felt an unexpected wave of sadness. I remembered all the times when I was little, before he worked eighty-hour weeks, how I would wake up early and he would make me Ovaltine and cinnamon toast and the two of us would sit together in the breakfast nook, reading the funnies.

  My whole life I couldn’t wait to get older. But suddenly, in that moment, I wanted to be five again.

  “Mmm,” my dad said, taking a gulp from his own glass. “Dee-lish … Try it, Beans. I made it just the way you like it, extra thick.”

  I took a sip.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good, Dad. Thanks.”

  “So…” he said, leaning against the wall in his nonwork uniform: khaki suit, seersucker tie. “Taylor called. She said you won’t answer your cell and she needs to talk to you.”

  “So?” My voice sounded cool, but my stomach did a flip-flop.

  “So, I’ve been thinking about what I said earlier, about keeping your distance from the LeFevres, and … well … I’ve reevaluated.”

  I gave him a blank look.

  “I think you should call her back.”

  “What?” I said. “Why?”

  “Because she’s your friend. Because it’s not her fault her brother’s a reckless—if not criminally negligent—driver. Because you’ve been sitting in your room, alone, for … how many days now?”

  I shrugged.

  “Beans,” my dad said quietly. “I’m going back to work tomorrow, and I’m not going to be around. I need to know that you have some moral support.”

  Clearly, my mother hadn’t shared the news yet, what Taylor did to me. Clearly, he had no idea that Taylor was the last person in the world whose support I needed.

  “Dad,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?” he said like he knew I was lying.

  I paused, thinking of all the truthful responses I could give. No, I’m not fine. I’m horrible. I hate Taylor. I hate Ryan. I’m scared I might be ugly for the rest of my life. My dad would listen; he wouldn’t judge. But whenever I told him my problems in the past, he’d try to fix everything. Struggling in geometry? Let’s get you a tutor. Missed three shots in the last game? Let’s set up a goal in the backyard. My father was Mr. Fix-it, the u
ltimate problem solver. His mission in coming to my room this morning: to make me better—to restore me to my former, happy self.

  “Why don’t you hop out of bed,” he said, “and get dressed, and I’ll take you and Taylor out for lunch.”

  “It’s lunchtime?” I said. Ignoring the obvious.

  “It’s one fifteen.”

  “Wow, I had no idea it was so late already … huh. Time really flies when you’re—”

  “Beans,” my dad said gently, cutting me off.

  “What?”

  “You can’t stay in bed forever. You can’t keep pushing your friends away. At some point, you’re going to have to get up and face reality.”

  I flinched at the words “face reality.” Not that he meant the pun, but still. I didn’t exactly need reminding.

  “Just give me one more day,” I said.

  “One more day?”

  I nodded.

  “All right,” he said, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  “Okay.”

  After my dad left, I noted with satisfaction that I hadn’t actually promised anything. “Give me one more day.” What did that even mean? In the morning I would hop out of bed, clap my hands, and start calling people?

  Please.

  I hopped out of bed, all right. I hopped out of bed and I moved operations down to the TV room, where I parked myself on the couch for three days straight. The same three days when everyone else was getting ready for school.

  “Are you coming tomorrow?” Kendall demanded, when I finally answered my cell phone.

  “Tomorrow?” I repeated, marveling at my clueless tone.

  “Hello … the first day of school?”

  “High school,” Rae’s voice piped in. “The first day of high school.”

  “Am I on speakerphone?”

  “Four-way call,” Kendall said. “Taylor’s on the other line.”

  Sitting on the couch, I felt a gush of hot lava rise inside me. I’d been blindsided! Not that Kendall and Rae were trying to hurt me, but still. What were they thinking? What was I supposed to say? I already told Taylor the night of the party: I hated her, I would hate her forever. To say it again—By the way, I still hate you—would be stupid. Besides, I didn’t want to sound like I cared. I was beyond caring.

  When Taylor said, “Hey, Lex,” I said nothing. When she asked in a voice as soft and familiar as the Hello Kitty pillow I’d slept with since I was two, “How are you feeling?” I said nothing. Zero. Zilch.

  “Okayyy,” Rae said, filling the silence. “So we’re meeting at my house at seven. My mom is all, ‘I’ll drive you girls,’ and I’m like, ‘Hell no, woman! We are not showing up in a minivan, we are taking the bus.’”

  “Right,” Kendall said. “We are busin’ it.”

  Last year, Taylor and I walked to school. The junior high was half a mile from my house, and the LeFevres were on the way, so I would pick up Tay and the two of us would walk together. Even if it was raining or frigid cold outside, even if one of our parents offered to drive, we still walked. We liked to walk. But this year was different. The senior high was all the way across town, so anyone on our side of the highway who didn’t have their license yet took the bus. Correction: anyone who planned to attend high school and didn’t have their license yet took the bus.

  I did not plan to attend high school. The day after the barbecue, I’d made my position clear. “Hire a tutor,” I told my parents. “Sign me up for GED courses online. Homeschool me. I don’t care. But I am not going.”

  And that is what I said now, to Kendall and Rae and Taylor: “I’m not going to school tomorrow.”

  “So, what,” Kendall said, “are you starting next week?”

  “No.”

  “Did the doctor say you had to wait?”

  “It has nothing to do with that,” I said. The truth. At my last checkup I’d learned my face was healing “beautifully,” and as long as I kept the graft hydrated and wore sunscreen every day I didn’t even need bandages. I could resume all of my “normal” activities.

  “So…” Rae said.

  “So, I just don’t want to go back to school.”

  “Like … at all?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you serious?” Taylor sounded genuinely shocked. “Is this because of what happened with me and Ryan?”

  It’s the first time she’s mentioned his name, and suddenly I’m like the girl from The Exorcist, head spinning around and puke flying from my mouth. “Because of what happened? With you and Ryan? What happened with you and Ryan, exactly? Enlighten me.”

  “Here we go,” Rae murmured.

  “Lex,” Taylor said quietly. “Let’s not do this over the phone. We need to talk in person.”

  I gave a snort that said, Never gonna happen.

  “What do you want me to say?” Her voice was low, pleading. “Tell me and I’ll say it.”

  “Tell you what to say? You want me to hand you a script?” I hated the way I sounded. I hated it, but I couldn’t help myself. “It’s not that complicated, Taylor. A baby could do it! A newborn baby could apologize better than you can!”

  Then she actually had the nerve to get mad. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? Why do you think I’ve been calling you every five minutes for the past month? What am I supposed to do when you keep blowing me off?”

  “Oh, this is my fault now?”

  “It’s not like I haven’t been punished,” Taylor said, her voice rising. “My dad grounded me for two weeks!”

  “Oooo. Two whole weeks.”

  “Come on, guys,” Kendall said. “Don’t do this.”

  “Yeah,” Rae chimed in, “life is too short. And you’ve been friends for too long.”

  When I heard those words, they hit me literally. “You’ve been friends for too long.” “You’re right,” I said. “This friendship is beyond over.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Rae said.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  My throat thickened, but I pushed past it. I told Taylor that I meant what I said. I told her to stop calling me. I told her to stop texting me. I told her, for the very last time, to stay out of my life.

  I didn’t even give her a chance to respond. After I hung up, I sat on the couch, holding the phone in my lap and waiting for it to ring.

  It didn’t.

  Delinquent

  ON THE FIRST day of school, I watched from the kitchen as Ruthie the senior backed out of the driveway in her VW clunker. A few minutes later, a big yellow school bus—my big yellow school bus—slowed to a stop at the end of my street, idled, then pulled away.

  Hence my mother’s sigh, her sideways glance in my direction. Was I sure I didn’t want her to drive me? It wasn’t too late. If I hopped in the shower right now we could still make it.

  “I told you,” I said. “I’m not going.”

  “Well, if you change your mind…”

  “I won’t.”

  “But if you do…”

  “I won’t. God, Mom. How are you not getting this?”

  “All right.” My mother nodded, rubbing the counter with her dishrag. “All right, I understand.”

  “Good,” I said.

  I couldn’t believe she was pushing the school thing. Last night, in the Mayer Family Debate about Education, my mom had been my biggest ally. While my sister threw out terms like pity party and enabling—and my father reminded me that when he took the job in Connecticut, he chose Millbridge specifically for the quality of the public schools, public schools that have an anti-truancy statute—my mom was the one who insisted I have time to heal.

  But now, with Ruthie back to school and my dad back to being a workaholic, maybe she didn’t know what to do with me. Maybe me staying home all day was cramping her style.

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” I told her. “Whatever you need to do, errands or whatever, just do it.”

  “Well,” my mother said, “I already went to the mar
ket … and the dry cleaning won’t be ready until tomorrow … and—I know!” Her face lit up. “Why don’t the two of us go into the city? We haven’t done any back-to-school shopping yet, and the stores won’t be crowded. We could grab a bite, get you a few cute outfits for fall….”

  “Cute outfits for fall.” Ha!

  What was the point of shopping if I was going to spend the rest of my life in my pajamas? Besides, the thought of me and my mother in a dressing room together—under fluorescent lights, surrounded by mirrors—made me sick. I literally couldn’t stomach the thought. Yet I couldn’t stomach the thought of her at home, either, hovering over me.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I’m up for the city today.”

  “Well,” my mom countered, “how about just Lord and Taylor? We could find you a little dress, some heels….”

  I stared at her. “Why would I want a dress and heels?”

  She smiled, swinging her dishrag through the air like a pom-pom. “Homecoming!”

  “What?”

  “Homecoming!” she repeated, gesturing to the calendar on the wall. “October twenty-fourth!”

  Of course. The minute my mother started planning an event, or whenever she received something in the mail—a baptism invitation, a tooth-cleaning reminder, a school calendar—she would document it, in color code, on the kitchen wall. Every upcoming occasion in our lives from here to eternity.

  “You and Ryan will make up,” she continued, “or another boy will ask you. Either way, you’ll want to look your best at the dance.”

  Oh, there were so many things wrong with this I didn’t know where to begin. How could my mother, who was born in 1972, still think we were living in the 1950s? Nobody went to dances as couples anymore. Not to mention the fact that there was no way in hell I would show this face on a dance floor, high school gym or otherwise. I hated to rain on my mother’s homecoming parade, but…

  “I’m not going to any dance. Ever.”

  “Of course you are,” she said brightly.

  I told her no, I wasn’t, and if she thought otherwise then she was in for a lifetime of disappointment.

  “Oh, honey,” my mother sighed as I grabbed a bag of Chips Ahoy! from the pantry and marched right back to the couch.