Flannery Read online

  But I understand why Miranda got the karate lessons when I see Felix racing through the gymnasium door in his little ninja outfit, his rosy face full of joy as he springs into a flying karate kick while yelling hiiiii-yaaaa. I can’t begrudge him a single thing. Not the karate lessons, not ice cream, not the helicopter drone, not even being born.

  On the other hand. Felix has grown fond lately of sneaking up on me at very vulnerable moments wearing steamed-up swimming goggles and a camouflage cap with the head of a cod fish on one side and the tail on the other side. Also a sheriff’s badge and a rawhide vest with fringes and a kerchief tied bank-robber style around the lower half of his face. And a checkered tablecloth tied around his shoulders under which he hides a Super Soaker. Even though it’s practically October and getting very cold outside and the time for Super Soakers has long since passed.

  I will give you an example of the kind of vulnerable moment I mean.

  You know when you find yourself in front of a mirror and you try that experiment where you don’t blink for as long as you can and you just stare hard into your own eyes?

  The room gets dark behind you and your face starts to change. If you stare long enough without blinking, your face wobbles and stretches and it isn’t your face anymore.

  And maybe you continue to look in the mirror and you begin to wonder, with every atom of your being, if anyone in this whole darned crazy world will ever love you.

  And you suddenly imagine yourself dying young.

  That is a vulnerable moment.

  It is a glance into the abyss. You actually tippy-toe around the abyss of loneliness. Look down. Vertigo. You’re dizzy and nauseous and not loved, that’s what you are. And, okay, a little self-indulgent, maybe.

  But, what if you were to die in some horrific way before true love can find you?

  Perhaps you imagine darting out into a busy street to save a toddler from an oncoming bus. Yes, there is a bus. There is a toddler. Cue the violins, slo-mo turn of your head, hair swishing over your shoulder, eyes wide with horror and you start to run. You’re running as though through a river of molasses — slow, graceful, beautiful — and you gather up the toddler in your arms and toss her/him/it to the side in time but, alas, too late for you to save yourself.

  The bus pile-drives you into tomorrow.

  Cut slow-mo; hold the violins.

  Oranges and apples burst from your shopping bag and roll downhill. The crowd on the sidewalk screams in terror.

  Everything is growing dark. Death has opened its great black maw to swallow you whole. You are prepared to go gently. Goodnight, you think. Goodnight moon, Goodnight bowl of milk, Goodnight cat, Goodnight Tyrone O’Rourke.

  But wait! You notice Tyrone O’Rourke, who has been, as divine intervention or sheer coincidence would have it, a passenger on the very bus that has been your doom. He has run to the front of the bus and is smashing his fist against the window. Now, for the first time in your about-to-be-cut-tragically-short life, Tyrone O’Rourke notices you. He finally notices you. Notices your shy beauty, your great spirit ebbing slowly from your half-closed eyes …

  Tyrone, Tyrone, you whisper. But there is no sound.

  He sees you lying on the pavement and thinks of how you have known each other pretty much all your lives. Tyrone is just coming home from hanging at the mall, and he has witnessed the accident and he has had a revelation.

  Tyrone O’Rourke loves you.

  You’re toast, almost. It’s curtains. The violins have started up again, they are going crazy right now, those violins. But Tyrone, beating on the glass door of the bus, is screaming, Let me out, let me out, perhaps not realizing, in his shock and haste, that the bus door folds in and he has to actually step back in order to exit and carry out a successful rescue.

  But he does step back, he does, and the doors open with a hiss and there he is on the street, his dark hair all afire with sunlight, tears on his cheeks. Tyrone O’Rourke by your side and about to kiss you, having yelled, Can’t somebody get an ambulance?

  Knowing the end is near, he gathers you into his arms, and in that silent, searching moment, you are forced to nearly burst out of your skin with fright and probably smack your head on the medicine cabinet because of a blast of very authentic-sounding machine-gun fire from a Super Soaker jabbing into your bum.

  Felix Malone has been hiding behind the shower curtain the whole time. A stakeout that required the insane patience only a master criminal could summon.

  A super-soaker blast and then your jeans are soaking wet. Why you little fink, you stinker, you, you, you. You swing for him. You try to grab the fish tail sticking out of the side of his head but he’s out the bathroom door, down the stairs, out the screen door and down the sidewalk and you’re left with a fistful of nothing.

  This is what you deal with on a regular basis.

  7

  Tyrone O’Rourke is coming over! Here! Today! He’s coming over to my house so we can pull the proposal for our Entrepreneurship unit together. I mean, it has to be in on Monday. He said he’d be here by four, so I rushed home after school and I’ve been trying on every outfit I have, again, and texting pictures to Amber, again, but she hasn’t responded, again. I sent her a final text — AMBBBBEEERRRR??????? — but nada. So I go with my jeans and my Ramones T-shirt.

  And I start gathering up all the piles of clothes in my bedroom and jamming them into the laundry basket. After about ten minutes I can actually see most of the floorboards. There were a couple of plates under the bed with dried ketchup smeared all over them and an old chip bag that looked like a mouse got at it. Also a broken glass and three dollars in change.

  Miranda goes by my room just as I’m putting on some eyeshadow.

  You look nice, she says. I tell her Tyrone is coming over and I try to sound casual.

  Tyrone O’Rourke? she says.

  To get our project done, I say. He’s my partner in Entrepreneurship. We’re going to make potions. His idea.

  Like when you were kids! Miranda says.

  Yeah, like maybe a love potion or something for prosperity or eternal youth.

  Want me to break out those frozen puff pastries? she says. Maybe whip some cream? A little strawberry jam?

  I thought you were saving those pastries for your consciousness-raising thing, I say. Your feminist meeting or whatever.

  It’d be a nice snack for you and Tyrone, she says. While you work on your project. With the bedroom door open.

  I look as shocked as I possibly can.

  Of course with the door open, Miranda, I say. It’s a school project for gosh sakes. I innocently bat my peacock-blue eyelids at her.

  And she’s skipping off down the stairs — absurdly humming “Here Comes the Bride” — to dig the frozen pastries out of the freezer. I make my bed and fluff the pillows. I clear off my desk and stuff all the extra papers under the bed. Squirt a little perfume in the air in case everything smells like old chips or the empty pizza box I found in the closet with a few curled-up pepperonis stuck to the cardboard. I decide that when Tyrone arrives I’ll put on some music. Last Christmas Miranda gave me a turntable she found at the Sally Ann. It came with three records: Cat Stevens, Beyoncé and Michael Jackson.

  I have one of those antique clocks in my room with the numerals on little plastic tabs that flick over every minute. The tabs make a shish-click every time they drop down.

  At 4:47 I put on Cat Stevens, and the song “Katmandu,” for some reason, makes me cry. The line about strange bewildering skies. Even just the word bewildering. Why does everything have to be so bewildering? Also, the eyeshadow has flaked into my left eye and it’s red and irritated.

  Miranda appears at the door of my bedroom with a big plate of the pastries.

  If you think I’m crying because Tyrone didn’t show up, you’re sadly mistaken, I tell her.

  I didn’t think that for a minute, Miranda says.

  I’m just worried about our project, which is in danger of being late, and stup
id Mr. Payne takes off two percent for every late day and I actually give a damn about my marks, okay?

  Absolutely, says Miranda. Have one of these.

  I take a pastry and stuff it in my face.

  I mean, I’m actually a responsible person, I say.

  I know, says Miranda. You blow my mind sometimes.

  Yeah, but not too responsible, right? Like, I’m not boring.

  Certainly not, says Miranda. She sits down beside me on the bed and starts eating one of the pastries.

  I’m capable of rebelling, I say.

  Aren’t these yummy? she asks.

  I mean, I could just, say, forget the stupid Entrepreneurship unit like some people, but then I would fail. And so would Tyrone. That’d show him.

  Flannery, you’re beautiful. Do you know that? I mean you really are very beautiful. I’m not just saying that because you’re my daughter. Although you do have some of my fine features.

  And then I am really crying, and also choking on a big gob of whipped cream that went down the wrong pipe.

  Hey, I almost forgot what color your bedroom floor was, says Miranda. Then Cat Stevens starts skipping. Miranda pushes herself off the bed and carefully lifts the needle on the turntable and blows away a tiny ball of dust. Then she turns it off.

  Listen, girl-child, she says, I’m going to leave these pastries with you. I’m going to go down and see if I can rustle up some real grub for dinner. Why don’t you put some time in on your proposal?

  I guess, I say. And she closes the door behind her. I sit down at my desk with a pen and paper. And I write like crazy. I’ve got the whole thing done by 6:17 when Miranda calls out that dinner is ready. I’ve outlined the whole project. Tyrone and I are going to be manufacturing love potions, eternal youth potions, a potion for prosperity, a potion for divining the future through dreams, and a potion for invisibility.

  And when I say Tyrone, I mean that at the very end of the proposal I signed his name too.

  Even though he didn’t do anything.

  Even though I put on eyeshadow for him and even though I’m not even worth a text to say he wasn’t coming.

  Even though girls probably do this kind of thing for Tyrone all the time just because he’s handsome and charming and because he makes everybody fall in love with him. Flannery Malone and Tyrone O’Rourke, right there on the cover page of our proposal. I’m pretty sure we’ll both get full marks.

  On Monday I wait for Amber outside her novel/cinema class. She never did text me back about the outfits, and we didn’t talk all weekend, which has to be a first. But the qualifying meet for this year’s Nationals is in two weeks so I know she was probably putting in extra swimming time.

  Whether she wants to talk about it or not, I know there’s a lot of pressure on her for this one. Just because she made the Nationals last year doesn’t mean she’ll automatically get to go this year. And I know for a fact that the men in her dad’s office have formed a betting pool. They have a big of pile money riding on her.

  So I decided to leave her be. Though I was about to call her once I realized Tyrone wasn’t going to show up at four like he said, or at 4:47, or at all.

  But something made me change my mind. I knew Amber, and I knew she would definitely be angry with Tyrone for not coming. And she definitely would not be okay with me putting his name on the proposal when he hadn’t done any of the work. She might not understand the way his life is. I mean, there were probably plenty of reasons he couldn’t show up.

  And basically, I want Amber and Tyrone to be friends because they’re both going to be in my life forever.

  So I decided not to call her. I was in my room on a Saturday night reading Slaughterhouse Five and eating popcorn and painting my toenails and the phone was right there on the bedside table and I didn’t so much as glance at it.

  But when do I not call Amber if something has upset me?

  So I glanced at the phone. Then I snatched it up and called her.

  But she didn’t answer. I texted again. She didn’t text back.

  Sometimes with those swim practices they push her so hard she conks out on the couch as soon as she gets home. Sometimes her parents leave her there all night because they can’t wake her up.

  So she was probably comatose and snoring her head off and didn’t call back. No biggie.

  But I’m dying to know what she and Gary are doing for their Entrepreneurship unit. She told me last week it was top secret (though, come on, seriously?) until they handed in their proposal, but that she’d tell me today after her novel/cinema class and I’d be the first, besides Gary, to know.

  The classroom door flies open and bangs against the wall and everybody bulges through all at once. But when Amber comes through she’s with Melody Martin, who goes out with the drummer in Gary Bowen’s band. Melody has her hair dyed pink and she has pink tights and pink patent leather Docs that go up to her knees.

  They are both looking at Instagram on Melody’s phone. Amber giggles with her hand clamped over her mouth and her eyes open really wide.

  Wait, just wait, says Melody. She’s flicking through a whack of pictures. They walk a few more steps, their shoulders pressed together because the laughter is making them stumble into each other. They stop again because Melody, apparently, has come to another hilarious picture and they’re snorting and doubling over and Amber is doing that fake jaw-drop thing.

  Wait until you see this one, Melody says. Are you ready? I’m not sure you’re ready for this.

  Let me see, let me see, Amber says. And Melody holds the phone out at arm’s length, right in front of Amber’s face.

  Awesome, she says.

  Didn’t I tell you? says Melody Martin. I told you, didn’t I?

  Amber, I say.

  She looks up, startled.

  I realize that I am afraid she will look right through me as if I don’t exist. I have never felt anything like this with Amber before. I don’t know what kind of expression I have on my face, but it feels accusing and lonely.

  I’ve never seen Amber act that way either, practically falling over with laughter at a dumb picture on somebody’s phone. I’ve never even heard her laugh like that before. It’s a new laugh, breathy and full of shivers.

  And since when has she been such close friends with Melody Martin? I guess it’s because both of their boyfriends are in the same band.

  But then there’s that Amber smile. She’s lit up. Her whole face grinning. She’s glad to see me. Really glad.

  Oh, Flannery, she says. Look! And she grabs the phone from Melody for me to see. It’s a picture of Amber and Melody and Brittany Bishop and Gary Bowen and Jordan and somebody else’s feet and somebody’s else’s arms all piled on a couch together on top of each other, each of them with a beer held up for the picture.

  At first I think Amber must have been photoshopped into the picture. She doesn’t go to parties with these people. We hardly ever talk to them.

  Then I remember trying to text her on Saturday night and she didn’t answer.

  I can’t believe she didn’t tell me about the party. She left me out on purpose.

  Cool, I say.

  Yeah, says Melody. Cool. She takes the phone back and slides it into her back pocket.

  See you at the game, Amber, Melody says. And she sashays down the corridor.

  What game? I ask.

  The basketball game tonight, Amber says.

  Because of your new interest in the sport, I say.

  I’m interested, yes. In basketball.

  But don’t you have practice? I say. I sound like Amber’s dad. But I thought swimming was why she wasn’t answering my texts. Now I realize she’s just been ignoring me.

  It’s a stunning revelation. Although I’ve seen her do it enough times when her mom calls. She checks the phone to see who it is and then she turns off the ringer and lays it face down and talks just a decibel louder right over the muffled brrrr it makes. She behaves as if the phone doesn’t exist.

&nbs
p; I’m skipping swimming practice, she says.

  Now it’s my turn to let my jaw drop.

  I don’t have to practice every single day of my life just because my dad has this pipe dream I’m going to be an Olympic swimmer, she says. And another thing. If I want to go to a party with my boyfriend, I don’t have to ask your permission. It was a date, okay? I was invited. I couldn’t just invite anyone I wanted to somebody else’s house. I thought you’d be happy for me, Flannery. That I was having such a good time.

  I wasn’t even thinking about that! I say.

  I saw the look on your face.

  I didn’t have any look, I say.

  But I know I must have, because my stomach is swirling. She’s mad at me?

  All I know is that I don’t want to be in a fight with Amber. We never fight. I don’t understand what’s happening here, but I don’t want her to walk away angry.

  So what are you guys doing? For your unit? You and Gary, I say.

  Amber hesitates. I can see she’s still upset, but she also wants to talk about Gary. She can’t help herself.

  We’re making a music video of his band, she says. We’ll sell DVDs and put it on iTunes. I think we can attract the attention of a label if the video is good. I finished the proposal last night while Gary was jamming. I’m kind of proud of it, actually.

  And all of a sudden she’s smiling again. The Amber smile.

  It’s going to be so cool, Flannery. Everybody is working on it, and my parents are fronting us the overhead. I want you to help with costumes.

  She takes out her phone and flicks through some pictures. There’s a list of people working on the production: a videographer, an editor, a sound person — and under costumes, I see my name along with Melody Martin’s.

  I’m too relieved about being included to be pissed off about not being asked first.