I have mixed feelings about Fridays.
Fridays are wonderful in some ways. They are the end of the school week and with them comes the expectation of the weekend. No meetings, no obligations. But Fridays are terrible in other ways. With all the expectations and promises they hold, there is no guarantee of anything good. The blank slate that stretches beyond Friday can be as cold and empty as any other day of the week. Fridays should be special, but often they are, unfortunately, simply more of the same. The same life I have come to expect. I color those expectations gray with disappointment, and unlike so many people and things in my life, those rarely disappoint me.
After school, Lindsey and I drop off some pictures at the yearbook office. We work together in the Student Life section. Actually, Lindsey is my editor. She likes that, that she can boss me around. Lindsey tosses the photo envelope carelessly into the inbox on her desk, then ducks into the dark room. Probably to steal some of the office supplies Miss Leon keeps in there. While I wait beside Lindsey's desk, I spy Amanda Kerner across the room behind her desk. Amanda is the editor of the Senior section. She's straightening a stack of light green papers. The Senior Awards ballots. She slips them into a manila envelope, then slides that into her backpack. This weekend, she'll count the ballots. Until May, only she and Miss Leon will know the winners. I wonder if Lindsey will weasel it out of her before. They play together on the varsity softball team. The team is pretty tight. Amanda leaves the room without even noticing me.
Sometimes I feel invisible.
Lindsey and I part ways outside the building. Her car is in one parking lot, mine is in the other. As I cross the courtyard, I already see Kristy and Abby huddled beside my bumper, their school cardigans stretched tight around them. Even after all this time, I am occasionally surprised by the sight of them in uniform, wearing the same navy plaid skirts and navy knee socks I have worn all my life. I know they anxiously await November first when the girls are allowed to wear khaki pants like the boys. I know our school is old-fashioned. But it's good in a lot of ways, too.
"You should wear coats," I say, when I reach the car.
"You're not," Abby replies.
"I'm not the one shivering." I turn to Tiffany, who is sprawled across the hood of my Ford Explorer like some cheap model in a car magazine. "Get off my car."
Tiffany rolls off the hood while I unlock the doors. As I turn the key in the ignition, Tiffany hops into the passenger seat while Kristy and Abby climb into the backseat. Tiffany called permanent shotgun when my parents gave me this car for my sixteenth birthday. Kristy and Abby have tired of fighting her on the issue. It's like most fights with Tiffany. Eventually, the other person backs down and Tiffany wins.
Kristy and Abby have their own cars. For their sixteenth birthday, Mrs. Stevenson bought Abby and Anna brand new Mustangs. Abby's is bright red. Anna's is glossy black. Abby adores hers. Anna does not. Last year, Abby and I switched off driving each week. But this year, she always has excuses. I drive every day of every week now. Kristy hasn't driven to school even once. She inherited her mom's old station wagon when Watson bought Mrs. Brewer a BMW roadster. Kristy has never said so, but I know she's embarrassed by her car. The SDS parking lot closely resembles a car dealership, everything shiny and new. The few kids who drive beat up cars are pitied. Kristy doesn't want that and it's a funny thing because I never expected Kristy to care.
Kristy, Abby, and I live on McLelland Road. Abby lives two houses down from Kristy and I'm right across the street. I think our proximity is a reason we've become such a close group. We're always within each other's sight, always reminded the others are near. I like that. I like knowing there are two people, straight across the street, who I can depend on.
I drop Kristy and Abby off at Kristy's. Nannie's Pink Clinker is in the driveway, its open trunk filled with grocery bags. My parents, and a lot of our neighbors, think the Pink Clinker is an eye sore. They want it towed to the junk yard. Personally, I think it's kind of nice. A slice of reality in our polished and manicured world. Kristy and Abby are already loading their arms with groceries when Tiffany and I pull into our driveway. Across the street, Abby's house is dark, which isn't anything unusual. Mrs. Stevenson commutes to New York City, where she is a book editor. She's always worked long hours, ever since the Stevensons moved in four years ago. Lately, she has worked later and later. Sometimes she isn't seen for days. Abby practically lives at the Thomas-Brewers. Kristy and I secretly suspect Mrs. Stevenson has a boyfriend in the city. We haven't told Abby. Maybe she doesn't know.
Mrs. Bryar is in the foyer when Tiffany and I enter the house, already buttoned into her coat and winding her striped scarf around her neck. Mrs. Bryar is our housekeeper. She comes three days a week. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Mrs. Bryar is warm in a very serious and efficient way. I think we are a lot alike. Mrs. Bryar is about the same age as my mother, but she is nothing like my mother. Sometimes I wish she was my mother.
"Sorry, Mrs. Bryar, am I late?" I ask, closing the front door, which Tiffany has left wide open.
"No, no. I'm not in a rush," she replies, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses.
"I'll write out your check. Just a minute," I tell her, walking briskly into the den. I am responsible for paying Mrs. Bryar every Friday. I am responsible for paying all the bills. My parents set up a special checking account for me, which they deposit money into each week.
"You know, you could leave the check taped to the fridge or something," Mrs. Bryar says, when I come back with the checkbook. "That way, you wouldn't have to rush home."
"It's not a problem," I promise, leaning against the wall, writing out the check. I tear it out, carefully, and hand it to her. "I'll walk you to your car."
"You don't have to."
"It's not a problem."
"All right."
Mrs. Bryar and I walk out to the curb where her gray Honda is parked. "Guess what?" I tell her. "Yesterday, we voted for the Senior Awards. For the yearbook? All my friends voted me as Most Likely To Succeed. I think I might win."
Mrs. Bryar smiles at me. "That's really great, Shannon. I hope you win," she says, unlocking the car door.
"I hope so, too. But don't tell anyone."
Mrs. Bryar smiles again. "I won't."
I stand on the sidewalk and wave to her as she drives off. Across the street, the trunk of Nannie's Pink Clinker is shut. Kristy and Abby are finished with the groceries. I turn and walk back inside the house. I find Tiffany and Maria, our twelve-year-old sister, in the kitchen. Maria's sitting at the table, already working on her homework. Maria's in the seventh grade. She gets out of school half an hour before Tiffany and I. She rides the bus home. Tiffany's sitting sideways on the counter, feet dangling into the empty sink, eating a banana.
"Off the counter. That's disgusting," I tell her, for what must be the twenty millionth time.
"Why do you always walk Mrs. Bryar to her car?" Tiffany asks through a mouthful of banana.
"Because I'm polite."
Tiffany narrows her eyes. "Are you guys talking about me?" she demands.
I heave an exaggerated sigh. "Why would Mrs. Bryar and I be talking about you?"
Tiffany shrugs and hops off the table, cramming the rest of her banana in her mouth. I hold out my hand, expectantly, tapping my foot. Tiffany stares at me, oddly, for a moment then rolls her eyes and stomps into the foyer. She returns carrying her messenger bag, the contents of which she dumps onto the table, digging through the mess until she comes up with a piece of folded yellow paper. Tiffany's weekly progress report. Dr. Patek's idea. Not that our parents have ever actually seen one. I unfold the paper and instantly swell with pride. B-pluses in French and oceanography, solid C's in English, American history, and gymnastics. Only a C-minus in algebra.
"Good job, Tiffany," I exclaim. I sit down beside Maria and pick up her pen. I quickly date the report October sixth, then sign Kathy Kilbourne across the bottom.
Tiffany takes the paper from me with a scowl. "We've only been in school five weeks," she says, sullenly. "The work is easy right now."
"No. It's because you've been working harder."
Tiffany rolls her eyes again and scoops her belongings back into the messenger bag. Then without even needing reminding or nagging, takes a seat across from Maria, and opens her French book. We're supposed to begin our homework as soon as we get home from school. Even on Fridays. I created that rule. We usually work until dinnertime. We don't have to finish our homework on Fridays, but it's important to get a head start. Maria has been very receptive to this rule. She loves school, especially math. She's already taking algebra. We don't mention that's the same math class Tiffany's repeating. Tiffany is less cooperative. Sometimes we have long, loud fights about the rule. And sometimes, like tonight, she complies wordlessly. I don't think I will ever understand my sister.
At five-thirty, we put away our books. The three of us stand in front of the open refrigerator for awhile, staring at its near empty shelves, then move to the pantry, which is just as bare. Our grocery delivery is every Saturday afternoon. We have a standing order at the A&P. Maybe I should move the delivery up a day. We finally agree on macaroni and cheese and frozen chicken strips. Not that there's much choice. None of us are much for cooking. There isn't a home economics class at SDS. But we all could use one. Sometimes, if we ask her, Mrs. Bryar cooks us a real meal.
My mother hasn't cooked in three years. Three years ago is when she got her real estate license. Now she works at my boyfriend's grandfather's office in Mercer. Real estate is very competitive. She doesn't come home much. She's here long enough to shower and change her clothes and catch a few hours sleep. Sometimes she even remembers to ask about our day. But sometimes she forgets about us altogether and passes our rooms late at night without a glance in. I guess she learned that from my father. He's a trial lawyer at a big firm in Stamford. He disappeared from our lives long before Mom. He doesn't always come home at night. Once, he went out of town for four days and no one noticed. He walked in with his suitcase and asked if we missed him. He didn't even see our bewildered looks. He didn't even hear Maria when she asked, "You were gone?"
So, that is what we have. Shadows of parents. Ghost parents.
But it doesn't matter.
We're fine.
After saying grace, Tiffany, Maria, and I eat in silence. It's not unlike Tiffany to sulk. She could probably go days without speaking. Maria is different. She usually chatters incessantly without pause.
"What's wrong?" I ask her, spearing a noodle with my fork.
Maria shrugs.
I raise an eyebrow.
Maria sighs and sets down her fork. "The entomology club is going on a field trip. We're having a bake sale to raise part of the money. I called Mom at work to ask if she'd make her pineapple upside-down cake. The one that won that award at the fair once. She said she has more important things to do."
Tiffany snorts. "You're in the entomology club?"
"You're in the gardening club!" Maria shoots back.
"It's called the horticulture club!"
"Knock it off!" I shout. I turn to Maria. "There's an entomology club?"
"It's new. There're only four members."
Tiffany laughs.
"So far!"
I kick Tiffany under the table. "Stop," I warn her. "Maria, I can make your cake."
Maria casts a doubtful look in my direction. "No. You can't."
"I'm a fair baker."
"But it won't be award-winning!" Maria protests. "Not really!"
I don't argue because she's right. I'm not an award-winning baker. I'm not even a very good baker. I'd probably make her a pineapple lop-side cake. The three of us clear the table in silence without argument. When the dishwasher is loaded and the table wiped clean, Tiffany and Maria retire to the family room to watch television while I slip into the den. I sit down at my father's big cherrywood desk, the one he hasn't sat at in years, and take out the checkbook and my household daybook. I pay two of Mom's credit card bills and the electricity bill. I wonder if the people at these company's receive these checks and think, this Kathy Kilbourne is always so prompt with her payments. And they don't know. They don't know it's me.
The doorbell rings. I can hear a Growing Pains rerun playing in the family room, Tiffany and Maria singing along to the theme song. They're not getting up. I roll back the desk chair and stride into the foyer. I raise onto my toes to peer through the peephole. It's Kristy and Abby. They're making hideous faces because they know I always check.
"What's going on?" I ask them, opening the front door. They've changed out of their uniforms. Kristy's wearing olive green cords with a tan and white striped turtleneck. Abby's in jeans and a red windbreaker. I forgot to change out of my uniform. It's six-thirty on a Friday night and I'm hanging around in my school uniform.
"David Michael wants to go to Good-Time Charley's for ice cream," Kristy tell me without a greeting. "Do you guys want to come? I'll drive." Kristy smiles and dangles her car keys in front of me. There's a plastic Unity Insurance keychain. Not Kristy's car keys. The keys to Watson's Suburban.
"Kristy, you know it freaks me out when you drive that thing. You can barely reach the pedals!"
Abby laughs. "Don't worry! We told David Michael he has to crouch on the floorboard and work them for her." She glances at Kristy and both start laughing, hysterically.
"Just go change," Kristy orders. She leans into the house. "Tiffany! Maria! We're going for ice cream! Hurry up!"
Tiffany and Maria come out of the family room into the foyer. Tiffany's still in her uniform, too. She stops beside me and looks over Abby's shoulder. "Who's that?" she asks.
Kristy and Abby turn around and the five of us crowd the doorway. A white van has pulled to a stop outside our house. A man about my father's age jumps out and waves to us, then walks around to the back of the van. He opens the doors and takes out a vase filled with red and white tulips. Smiling, he starts up the walk.
"One of you Shannon Kilbourne?" he asks.
Maria shrieks. "Someone sent you flowers!"
"I'm Shannon," I say, shoving between Kristy and Abby onto the porch.
"Sign here please," the man says, handing me a clipboard. "Sorry to come so late. I got all the way home and realized I forgot these."
"That's okay!" I assure him, taking the flowers, smiling.
We step back inside the house and shut the front door.
"Oh, Mickey. Oh, Mickey. Ooh, ooh, ooh," Kristy gushes, kissing her her hand with loud smacking noises. She is such a child.
"I'll hold them for you, Shanny," Maria offers when I pluck out a small card from between the tulips. I hand over the vase, so I can open the card. It's just like Mick to surprise me before our actual anniversary. He's very romantic. His first week at Idaho State, he express mailed me a pound of Idaho potatoes. Okay, that wasn't exactly romantic. But it was very funny. Before he left for college, though, he baked me a huge heart-shaped cake with red cinnamon frosting. Mick is an excellent baker.
I slowly tear open the envelope and slip out the small card. It has red tulips on it. I read. And immediately, the smile crumples from my face. I stare at the card, stunned.
"What is it?" Kristy demands.
Tiffany snatches the card from between my fingers. She reads aloud, "Dear Shan-Shan," Tiffany pauses to laugh. "The last six months have been great. But we have to break-up. Sorry. Mickey."
Kristy, Abby, Tiffany, and Maria stare at me in absolute horror. My insides grow hot with embarrassment and shame. I hope it doesn't show on my face. I don't want anyone looking at me like that, pitying me, feeling sorry for me. I grab back the card and stuff it into its envelope. "It's okay. Really," I assure them. "We needed to break-up. We need to focus on school."
"It's not okay!" Kristy cries. "That slimeball! That coward! He can't even call you! He can't even write a real letter!"
"I have a plan," Abby says, calmly. "We have Watson's Suburban and a full tank of gas. How long will it take to drive to Idaho?"
"Good thinking, Abby!" Kristy exclaims. "I'll get Nannie's hedge clippers. We'll castrate him."
"I'll go throw these," Maria casts a disdainful look at the flowers, "in the garbage."
"Oh, you're all being silly!" I protest. "Maria, go set those on the dining room table, so we can all enjoy them. I'll just run upstairs and change," I dash out of the room and up the stairs. I hear Tiffany behind me, so I move faster. In my bedroom, I start pulling clothes out of the closet. "I think I'll wear my gray skirt," I tell Tiffany, when she enters the room. "Which sweater do you think? The blue or the white?"
Tiffany looks at me sympathetically. It's so sickening I have to turn away, pretending to be enthralled in my choices. Tiffany walks over to me and slips an arm around my shoulders. She's taller than me by several inches. I feel little and weak beside her like that. Helpless.
"It's all right to be upset, Shanny," she tells me.
"Who's upset?" I reply, shaking off her arm. I slip into a pair of gray heels, so I am tall, too.
"He was your first serious boyfriend. You can cry. It's all right to cry."
"I'm not going to cry," I say. I never cry. It's a waste of time. I solve problems. I don't stew about them in salty, self-indulgent tears.
Tiffany's face hardens slightly. "Well, will you do something?" she demands. "Scream! Shout! Break something! Anything!"
"I am doing something," I reply, casually. "I'm choosing a sweater. The white, I think."
Tiffany's in my face. "If you're not careful," she spits out, "you'll turn into a coldhearted bitch just like Mom!" And then she's gone. She slams my bedroom door and then her own.
Finally alone, I crouch low to the ground. I hold my head in my hands. I can't breathe. It's like Mick has stolen all the breath from my lungs along with my heart. I remain very still. Maybe it will pass. Maybe I will breathe again. I wait a long time. The house is quiet. I regain my breath and straighten up. I should feel calm, but instead there's something boiling deep inside me, red hot and furious. If I'm not careful, it may spill over into my life and betray me.
I take a pillow from my bed, press my face into it, falling forward on the bed. I scream. I scream my throat raw. And when that doesn't help, I punch the wall.