Twelve
Here’s another nugget of wisdom from that genius among men, L. Tolstoy: “True life is lived when tiny changes occur.” It sounds generic, I know—like a quote you’d find embroidered on a pillow at a Cracker Barrel. But it’s more profound if you switch things around and make it negative: “You’re not really living if nothing changes.” So, like, you shouldn’t be afraid of change, because change is one of those reminders you’re alive, and something is happening in your life.
Sometimes I feel like I do my least amount of living during the summer. The weeks turn into a stale progression of habit—a circuitous movement from my bedroom to Jack’s bedroom to the Harlows’ basement to Old Navy and back to my bedroom, where it all began.
I wonder if this is how everyone is destined to live: hopping from familiar space to familiar space, until all the familiar spaces turn into one big blurry memory of nothing in particular. I read somewhere that the average American spends six months of their life stopped at red lights. I wonder how many years most people spend in their bedrooms. How much of life happens within those four walls? I probably think about this more than is strictly healthy—usually while in my bedroom.
June gets older and hotter until it passes on a sweltering summer torch to July. I spend three mornings a week at Old Navy, two mornings on filming, and the remaining two thinking thoughts, big and small, in my room.
On the whole, filming is going smoothly. Like Jack, most of the cast shrugs off the idea of actually attending the Golden Tubas because of cost or timing. In the end, George is the only one besides me who plans on going. But the fact that just two of us will be heading to Orlando doesn’t dampen anyone’s excitement; the nomination is a big deal, confirmation we’re doing something right .
Things are less at ease in the Zelenka household. The day after Mom and Dad dropped the Christmas Baby Surprise on us, they agreed to let me go to the convention. Which was no doubt their way of trying to win me back into their good graces, but hey, if accepting the offer makes me shameless, I guess I’m shameless.
I’m on speaking terms with my parents, but I’m not really back to full civility. That disorientation I felt in the park? It’s still there, occasionally clouding glimpses of the future: graduating from Calhoun while some tiny Zelenka shrieks in the bleachers, or Skyping my parents from college only to find my mom’s exhausted from the baby and has already gone to bed. I know it’s only speculation—I’m not a freakin’ seer. And I know I can’t stop those inexorable nine months from culminating in a kid brother or sister. This is happening. It doesn’t make sense to glare at my parents during movie night. But still . Why the hell are they shoving another sibling into the family equation? I don’t think I’m mad, but I am resentful. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s something only time is going to fix.
Anyway, my reaction is angelic compared to Klaudie’s. She’s already been spending most of her time outside the house, but now I’m lucky to see her once a week. She bails on all her date nights with Dad, when they usually watch baseball in the den. And on the few nights she joins us at dinner, she’s curt and monosyllabic. She eats her food as quickly as possible and leaves the moment she’s through.
“Someone’s ready for college,” Dad says one night after a particularly chilly interaction.
Which is a stupid thing to say, because Klaudie has been telling us how ready she is for college for a year now, and anyway, we all know that isn’t the real reason for the ice-out.
• • •
The Friday after Independence Day, I’m at Old Navy monitoring the floor and fitting rooms when I see Jay Prasad browsing a row of button-up plaid shirts. With devious intent, I creep up behind him and jab his spine. Jay jumps and swings around.
“Tash,” he laughs. “Shit. I thought you were going to accuse me of shoplifting.”
I eye the green-and-white button-up Jay is already wearing.
“Actually, you could probably wear one of those out of the store and no one would notice.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to say stuff like that as an employee.”
“I’ve worked here three summers. I can do whatever I want.”
Jay just laughs again and asks, “You off your shift anytime soon?”
I check my watch, which isn’t necessary. I already know the time. On slow days like this, I check my watch every couple minutes, as though the mere act will speed along the second hand. An unenlightened exercise in futility, my mom would call it.
“I’ve got a couple hours left, but my manager won’t get too pissed if I talk to you. We’ve been pretty dead.” I gesture to the empty floor. “Walking on Sunshine” is playing in the background for the umpteenth time.
“Looking for anything in particular?” I ask, remembering to be semi-employee-like. “Looks like you’ve got a good handle on the plaid.”
“Plaid is eternal,” Jay says. “It’s like blue jeans. Everything and everyone looks good in plaid.”
I don’t agree, but I smile in the “yes, you should totally buy all of it” way I perfected at job training.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” Jay adds. “How did I not know that? I feel like that’s something I should know.”
I shrug. “I guess these days we’re only talking about the web series.”
“Yeah. Speaking of which, did I tell you I got a few e-mails from some web series directors? Nothing huge, just requests for a headshot and résumé. None of them are close to us, of course. One’s in Ontario, and the other’s outside L.A. They both said they’d accept a video audition if I’m willing to relocate, and I’m like, ‘Do I look like a professional actor with endless funds?’ I’m not sure they get that most of us are still in high school. But the attention’s nice.”
“For sure,” I say, still digesting the fact that an actual web series in L.A. asked for our very own Jay’s headshot.
But Jay’s moved on and asks, “Is it really just going to be you and George in Orlando?”
“Yes.” I try to keep a straight face that does not betray my distaste. Distaste is not professional.
“Uh-huh. You gonna cut back on costs? Share a room? ”
“Jay.”
“What?” he says, all innocent. “I’m just saying, there’s a fine line between hate and love. Opposites attract, and all that. He’s a very pretty boy, and now, bonus, he’s famous.”
“I made him famous,” I say, feeling lofty.
I am desperate for a way out of this conversation.
Sometimes, I feel like I could tell Jay the truth and he would not act like it’s weird. He knows what it’s like to not fit into the World at Large’s Hopes and Expectations for You. But more often than not, I’m worried that telling Jay will be the equivalent of stomping on his foot. To throw out my lack of sexuality when Jay is getting harangued every day for the expression of his own? It seems so insensitive. It’s not like people are telling me I can’t get married or that I’m going to hell.
I’ve been part of Calhoun’s gay-straight alliance since freshman year. When I joined, I identified myself as an ally. During one of our meetings this past year, Tara Rhodes said, “Allies are important. They’re the ‘A’ in all our acronyms, after all!” And I wanted to stand up right then. I wanted to shout, “I’m real and here and just as confused as a lot of you!” But I stayed quiet, because I didn’t want to come out right there, in a basement classroom that smelled like whiteboard cleaner. Still, Tara’s comment bothered me for months after that. It made me feel like no one saw my “kind of people.” That we didn’t exactly count . And if I didn’t count in an effing GSA meeting, then where the hell was I supposed to go?
“Tash?” Jay’s smile has disappeared during my long silence. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you feel weird.”
“No, it’s fine. I was just thinking, it would be a lot cheaper if I could share a room with someone. Just . . . not George. You know, Tony was thinking of going for a while, but I think he decided he wanted a new synth more.”
“He loves his music.”
Jay is making a careful study of a scarf rack just behind my shoulder.
“Jaaay,” I drawl uncertainly. “Um, I know it’s not any of my business, but—”
Jay’s face crumples. “I don’t want to talk . . . about . . . um, about that.”
I nod quickly. “Okay.”
“It’s just . . . you’re Jack’s friend, and he’s Jack’s ex, so it’d be weird for us to talk about it, right?”
It really would be. I don’t know why I said anything. Only I do know: It’s because every time Jay and Tony film together, Jay looks like a big-eyed puppy waiting for Tony to pet his head and say “Good boy.” Because even on-screen, when Alex and Vronsky are duking it out, you can see a smidgen of wistfulness in Tony’s eyes. Or maybe only I see it. Whatever the case, it’s painful.
“I mean, I really like him,” Jay says, despite the established weirdness. “I think that’s obvious to everyone but him. But I don’t want to fuck things up with the filming. Because I love Jack, she’s great. And it’s already kind of topsy-turvy with all the online attention and then Klaudie leaving and George . . . you know, George being George.”
Oh. I am so well acquainted with all these stressors.
“Okay, okay,” says Jay, without any encouragement. “I’m also afraid Jack will kill me. She seems like the type who could murder someone and cover it up perfectly.”
“She is,” I say, without thinking.
Jay’s face is so crumpled now, it’s almost beyond recognition.
“Um,” I say. “You’re right. This is too weird.”
Jay shoves a plaid shirt back on its rack. “Were she and Tony really serious?”
I recall all the long phone calls with Jack during the Tony months, which were filled alternatively with sobbing and swooning. I recall all the playlists Tony shared with Jack, which she subsequently shared with me. I think of the love songs Tony wrote for Jack and the breakup songs Jack wrote about him. I think of the late night back in December when Jack came over and crawled into my bed and confided that she and Tony had slept together for the first time. Two months later, they were broken up.
“Well. You saw them when they were together,” I say.
“That was different, though. You guys are always professional when we film.”
This pleases me to hear. Professionalism is always the goal. Even after their breakup, Jack and Tony managed to make it through the following months largely ignoring each other rather than fighting in front of the rest of the cast.
“Then yeah,” I say. “I’d say they were serious. As serious as life or death.”
“You mean ‘safe.’ ”
“Hmm?”
“I think the saying is ‘Safe as life or death.’ ”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.”
“Jay, can I interest you in one of our scarves? You seem super into them.”
“What? Oh, no, sorry.” Jay shakes his head, wipes a hand across his face. “Sorry, like I said, we probably shouldn’t talk about it.”
I poke Jay’s cheek. “So, stop talking.”
A too-long-absent smile returns to Jay’s face. “We should hang out more often. Outside filming. I miss when we’d just hang out.”
“Me too. Everything’s been all business for a while.”
“You should make that part of the business plan: mandatory hang-out sessions.”
“Mmm, that sounds like lots of fun.”
Jay ignores my sarcasm and, with the charisma of a presidential candidate, says, “If the fun isn’t happening, make the fun happen.”
“I hope someone attributes that quote to you one day on a big marble slab.”
Jay holds up his only remaining plaid button-up. “I’m ready to check out.”
I assume my employee face and nod congenially. “Excellent choice. Right this way, sir.”
• • •
“Grandmum, can you hear us?”
The image on the computer screen is pixilated, and Grandmum Young’s voice emits from the speakers in gurgled bursts. Sometimes it’s hard to catch certain words Grandmum says because of her Kiwi accent, but this kind of lapse in communication is due solely to technical difficulties.
My family has been Skyping with Grandmum and PopPop Young for about an hour when the picture freezes. Tonight, it’s just me and my parents sitting around the living room computer. Klaudie skipped out before dinner without telling anyone, and I for one am supremely pissed about it. Klaudie knew we were Skyping with the grandparents. She knew, and she totally stood them up.
In my opinion, all things are sacred where grandparents are concerned, because they are old and you never know if this present interaction with them will be your last. I didn’t know the kiss I planted on Nana Zelenka’s cheek in the parking lot of an Olive Garden would be the last kiss. Everything seemed so ordinary that night. Nana Zelenka hugged me around the waist and told me to be a good girl, and then she and Gramps were killed instantaneously in a car crash on their drive home.
This very night, Klaudie could be missing out on the last possible conversation with Grandmum and PopPop Young. I mean, I’m not wild about my parents’ baby news, but I’m not taking it out on my grand parents.
I try to shed the anger—not because Klaudie doesn’t deserve it, but because I don’t want all the bad emotion to show on my face. Of course, at this point, my grandparents are lucky if they can even make out a featureless blob through the bad connection.
“Mum?!” Mom yells at the screen. “Mum, if you can hear us, we’re going to hang up and try you again.”
When Mom hits the end-call button, Dad turns to her with clasped hands and begs, “Can we say our Internet went out?”
This is yet another one of those points where my parents differ greatly. Mom loves lengthy conversations. She asks about the little things, like my grandparents’ daily schedule and what they ate for breakfast. She asks how they’re feeling, and how they feel about those feelings, and how those feeling about those feelings make them feel. My dad’s a talker too, but he prefers loud, hot-blooded conversations. Topics like sports and politics. When it comes to Skype dates with Mom’s parents, Mom calls the shots, so our conversations tend to be mild and rambling, with no highlights and no clear ending point. Grandmum and PopPop know about the baby, of course, so that provided them with twenty minutes of somewhat interesting discussion—and silent moodiness on my part, because how could my grandparents be talking about a new grandchild like it wasn’t the most screwed-up news in the world? But things digressed after that, and by the time our connection went bad Grandmum was complaining about a bunion on her left heel.
I endure these mind-numbing conversations because, again, grandparents are sacred. But also for Mom’s sake, because she’s said lots of times how guilty she feels that Klaudie and I don’t know our grandparents as well as we could. These Skype talks and our two-week visits every five years are all we have to go on. And I know how much this bothers Mom. It’s enough to make her weep silently in the den late at night.
Mom dials Skype again.
“You can always tell them good night and leave,” she says to Dad. “I’m sure they won’t mind.”
“I’m sure they won’t,” Dad says, peevish. “Your mother will be too busy talking bunions to notice.”
The Skype call is still ringing.
“Maybe their Internet went down,” I say.
Dad nods enthusiastically. “Internet down Down Under!”
Mom sighs and says, “Jan, just go upstairs. I’ll tell them good-bye from you.”
Dad looks like a child trying to process the announcement that school has been canceled for the day.
“Go on,” Mom says, swatting his elbow. “You’ve done your good deed for the month.”
Dad sprints toward the staircase, headed for the master bedroom and a few hours of ESPN .
“Men,” I sigh. “They have so little fortitude.”
Mom gives me a look that says, That’s not true, but at the moment it is. Then the call finally picks up and my grandparents come back into view, much clearer than before.
“Grandmum, can you hear us?” I ask again.
Grandmum Young smiles into the camera. “Yes, sorry, dear. John thought we ought to restart the program. Technology can be a blessing and a curse, can’t it?”
I nod wholeheartedly.
• • •
It’s past midnight when Klaudie gets in. I’m still up, texting Thom about the most recent episode of Storms of Taffdor , during which blood was spilled and tears shed.
I’ve just sent a text that reads, I could watch those opening titles on a loop for an entire day, when I hear the soft thud of footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, I punch in Sorry, gotta go, fling off my comforter, and race to the door. I catch Klaudie in the hallway, as she’s passing. As if compelled by the instinct of a wild animal, I grab Klaudie’s elbow and dig my nails in, hard.
Klaudie shrieks, then tacks on a low cuss and shakes me off.
“What the hell ? What is your problem?”
“What is your problem?” I hurl back. “Bailing on our call with Grandmum and PopPop? That’s rude .”
There’s a smell hanging in the hall—vaguely familiar, but out of context. It’s tied to my memories of walks downtown and Calhoun High’s parking lot. It’s smoke. Klaudie smells like cigarettes.
“I already had plans with Ally and Jenna,” she says.
“So, you should’ve canceled your plans. Grandmum and PopPop are family. You’re probably not even going to be talking to Ally and Jenna in three years.”
Klaudie’s face fills to the brim with disdain. It’s a hideous expression—something that belongs to a cartoon. It’s an expression you wouldn’t use on your worst enemy, just your sibling.
“You don’t know anything about my life,” Klaudie hisses.
“Look, I’m pissed too, but there are some lines you don’t cross. And you don’t have to be that shitty to Mom and Dad when they’re paying your freakin’ college tuition.”
“An eighth of my tuition,” snips Klaudie. “And I worked my ass off to get a scholarship.”
“Yeah, well, they won’t be paying for me to go to Vanderbilt.”
“Oh come on, Tash, you won’t even get into Vandy. Get your head out of the damn clouds.”
Now I am wearing my own variety of hideously angry face. I am shaking. I feel perfectly capable of scratching Klaudie’s eyes out.
“You know what this is actually about, don’t you?” Klaudie says, and I smell another familiar-but-unusual scent on her breath. “You know what Mom is telling us? That we’re not up to par. We didn’t turn out the way she wanted. So she wants a do-over.”
“You don’t know that,” I whisper, even though she’s voicing something I’ve suspected more than once.
“It’s dangerous and financially irresponsible, and if you want to go along with it like nothing is wrong, just for the sake of harmony or whatever Buddhist bullshit you still believe in—”
“I’m not ‘going along with it’ !”
“Yeah, but you will. Because you’ll do anything to stay in Mom’s good graces. You’re such a suck-up.”
“Seriously? You’re the one who brings home straight As and gets into Gramps’s engineering program and watches ESPN with Dad and earns National Merit whatever. And I’m the suck-up? Don’t even—”
“Yeah, fine. Lie to yourself about that, too. Just like you’re lying to yourself about getting into a good college.”
We aren’t being quiet. What began as an exchange of grizzled whispers has now escalated to shouts. When I notice Mom in the doorway of the master bedroom, I have no idea how long she’s been standing there. Klaudie catches my change in expression, turns around, stiffens.
“Girls,” Mom says in her usual crystalline voice. “It’s past bedtime.”
As though she’s heard nothing. As though the only thing amiss here is that we’re up past midnight.
Then Mom turns back around and closes the door.
Klaudie begins to say something, but I don’t wait around to hear what.
I slam my bedroom door and sink into a sit against it, processing everything that’s just been said. Klaudie has no idea what she’s talking about. She’s the suck-up. She always has been. Every summer before now she spent earning volunteer hours at the Hope Center and working on extracurricular science projects with the Calhoun physics club. She spent them studying test prep for the SAT . She spent them babysitting and endearing herself to the neighbors. She spent them hanging out with our family. She’s racked up so many Perfect Points, she’s exceeded the limit and passed on to sainthood.
At least, that’s been the case every summer until now. I don’t know what the hell she’s into with Ally and Jenna, but Klaudie’s an adult. If she wants to shake things up, then fine, I guess she deserves it. She doesn’t deserve to be a bitch about it.
Her words about Vanderbilt won’t leave my head, and neither will the look on Mom’s face when she caught us shouting irretrievable words.
Once I’m in bed, the thought hits me: For so long, I’ve always thought of Klaudie as the better daughter. The queen apparent in our sibling lineup. But these days, I’m not so sure. I think her reign might be ending. Not that I’m vying for the crown; Klaudie just seems dead set on losing hers.