The Calculus of Change Page 5

  My brother would come away from the sprees with hundreds of dollars’ worth of new clothes for the school year. I would come away with less than Jon, and what I did buy looked like boy clothes. Every time I’d try on a pair of pants, Bubbie would say, Don’t you think those are a little snug, darling? I’d go a size up, and the waist would gape open, and even then, there wasn’t enough fabric to cover the butt and thigh region.

  Bubbie was disgusted with my body. I felt ashamed and awkward standing in front of her, trying on clothes. It made me miss my mom.

  My worst shopping trip was when I came away with three baggy, pastel-colored cashmere sweaters and four pairs of ill-fitting pants. Despite alterations, department stores cannot work with my butt-to-waist ratio.

  Bubbie was always skinny. Not thin. Not fit. Skinny. She smoked like a chimney. Only ladies’ cigarettes, she’d say. Somehow she made smoking look classy, leaving a perfect ring of lipstick around the end of her cigarette, blowing smoke out the car window.

  She’d offer us dessert, but never, ever partook. Oh, I gave that up years ago, my little love, she’d say as I downed another scoop of ice cream.

  Now we drive once a year to Scottsdale, and each time she offers a shopping spree, I decline. She acts disappointed, but I wonder how relieved she is. She doesn’t have to worry about fitting pants around my thighs or ass. She doesn’t have to ponder the shame it is that I’m not some perfectly packaged ideal of a “young lady.”

  ***

  Marissa and I are at a trendy store in the mall. There’s nothing expensive in here. Marissa is in the underwear section. She likes wearing sexy bras and underwear. Everyone should have a dirty little secret, she says.

  “Aden. It’s time for you to retire a few pairs of granny panties.”

  “Ha! As though anything here will fit me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Here, try this on,” she says, shoving a lacy red bra and its matching panties into my arms.

  “I don’t try on.”

  “Fine.” She looks at the size tag. “These will fit you, trust me.”

  I sigh in the most dramatic way I can. The underwear is nice. I’d rather have these poking out of my jeans than my yellow patterned cotton. I wonder if my mom would want me to wear these, or if she’d think they’re too sexy. I wonder what kind of underwear she wore. It occurs to me that this is a weird thought.

  And then I think of Tate. I’d want him to see me in the red lace, not the polka-dot cotton. Not ever. I stare down at the panty set. I can’t decide if they’re taunting or tempting me.

  “What do you think?” Marissa says. She’s holding a strapless teddy up to herself and looking in the mirror. It’s pink, sheer, and lacy all over. No doubt this teddy will be seen.

  “Wouldn’t this look spicy peeking out under a white tank?”

  “Spicy is one word for it.”

  “Shut it, prude.”

  I have a vision of Marissa leaning over Danson’s desk. That’s all this thing with Danson is, though—flirting, leaning.

  But I like it. The pink teddy. I try to picture myself in it, but I can’t see myself as sexy enough. It’s not that I don’t think about sex, what it would be like. It’s just that all my boxes are checked except that one. Excels at being a student, daughter, sister, friend, singer-songwriter . . . lover?

  “Do you have specific plans for this spicy little number?”

  “What if I did?” She’s still looking at herself in the mirror, puckering her lips.

  “Don’t pucker. You don’t need it.”

  “Ade, we all need a little pucker from time to time.”

  I roll my eyes. But maybe I could use a little change. Because thinking I’m not whatever enough (sexy, pretty, thin) is draining.

  I think I’ll get the panty set.

  Dad

  I’m six years old.

  The front door opens, and instead of greeting us in the living room, my parents go upstairs, my mom’s slender body leaning into my dad. She gives us a half smile and an even weaker wave before disappearing. Bubbie has let us watch endless television and eat three pieces of candy each in our parents’ absence.

  When we hear the sound of my mom retching, Bubbie turns the volume on the movie so high that Jon puts his hands over his ears. He’s five, dressed in nothing but a pair of underwear and a cape. Jon and I look from each other to Bubbie. She motions to the screen as if to say, Don’t look at me—watch.

  When Bubbie goes to the kitchen, I climb the stairs quietly, on all fours. But before I can see my mom, like I’d intended, I need to use the bathroom. I flip the lid of the toilet and discover remnants of my mother’s vomit on the sides of the bowl. I pee on top of the residual mess and flush once. I stand with my head inches away from the seat, willing the evidence of my mom’s pain to disappear. The bile remains, and I flush again, but the plumbing still runs, and water fills the basin, refusing to go down again. I wait and flush again, but it’s sticky and the water in the toilet isn’t strong enough to erase this mess.

  As I stand, staring into the pot, I hear my dad talking in their bedroom.

  Can I get you anything?

  No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

  My dad’s voice is low, almost a whisper. I wish I knew what you needed.

  Me too.

  The door clicks shut as he leaves her in their bedroom, suffering.

  In six-year-old defiance, I do not wash my hands, but stand in the doorway silently, watching my dad leave my mom, his head hanging heavily between his shoulders.

  When I think he’s gone downstairs, I place my hand on the door handle, and just as it’s about to twist open, I hear my dad say, Aden.

  I turn to find him standing at the top of the stairs. I wave innocently and move to open the door again, but my dad says, this time louder and firmer, She needs to be left alone right now, Aden.

  But.

  No buts. Step away from the door. Now.

  Can I just go in and give her a hug?

  No, Aden.

  ***

  I’d hated him bitterly then for keeping me from my mother. I couldn’t have articulated it at six, but I knew two things: one, my mom wouldn’t have rejected my affection, even when she was sick, and two, as much as I hated my dad in that moment for keeping me from her, I couldn’t scream like I wanted. By then we already had an understanding about keeping a quiet house when Mom was sick. So even at six, I’d known what to do, how to act in such a way that kept the truth at bay in favor of counterfeited peace.

  At the time, I’d thought my dad was protecting my mom. From me. But now I wonder if he was protecting me. From her struggle.

  Sabita

  Sabita is sitting on Jon’s bed. Jon’s in the bathroom, and she hasn’t noticed me yet. Whoa, her hair. I can see her messing with her hair. It’s a symphony of black waves. A thick silk rope framing huge brown eyes, her skin maple syrup. She might be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I try not to think about the fact that just two days ago, Marissa was on that bed, making out with Jon.

  I clear my throat before pushing the door farther open. I’m curious about her; I want to meet her. I consider leading with You must be Sabita, but think better of it for Jon’s sake.

  I smile and step into the room.

  “I’m Aden.”

  She smiles back. It’s a kind smile with a hint of laughter behind it. She has a really nice angular chin, and does she pluck those brows? How does she get that arch?

  “Sabita.” She extends a hand.

  Oh, a handshake.

  Her grip is halfway between firm and floppy, and I’m not sure what to make of her, other than the fact that I pale in comparison. She’s like beauty incarnate. Sickening, really.

  Jon returns from the bathroom, and I’m aware that I’ve stepped into a make-out session break. I try unsuccessfully not to imagine the two of them sucking face.

  “Hey, Aden,” Jon says.

  I flash him a look that’s supposed to say man-whore, but I doubt
he notices.

  “Hey,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Don’t know.” He’s hanging on the door, gently nudging it closed, edging me out.

  “Nice to meet you, Sabita.”

  Jon shuts the door in my face.

  I think he might be over Marissa. Just like that.

  I hang my new panty set on the top knob of my dresser drawer and stare at it. I wonder if the bra will make my boobs look too big. I wonder what kind of bra and undies Sabita wears. It occurs to me again that I should probably stop contemplating everyone’s underwear.

  Jon

  Spring of last year.

  My dad and I are camped out under our lacrosse-game tent. Gatorade at the ready. The score is 3–5; Bentley is in the lead, as is normally the case. The tent and Gatorade all sound like a big deal, but the tent is portable—it takes five minutes to set up and take down. Sometimes lacrosse moms and the occasional dad will join us. Dad started investing in Jon’s success as a lacrosse player when he showed talent in middle school. I think it gave him a purpose. He bought Jon the best of the best gear, even hired a trainer for him during the off-season.

  Jon scores twice, quietly congratulating himself with the pull of his fist into his body. The team cheers and fist bumps and keeps running and running. I wonder how many miles they run in a game. I love the way Jon hurls the ball into the net, celebrates momentarily, and then just keeps on with the knees high and the jumping and the shouting to his teammates. He won’t glance at us the entire game, but the not-looking—it’s purposeful because he’s so keenly aware of our dad there.

  After the game he strides toward the tent, exhausted, straight for the Gatorade. They provide the team water and sports drink in big jugs, but Jon loves blue Gatorade, and Dad buys it in bulk at Costco. In fact, the blue Gatorade has been a source of the world’s end in the past when my dad has forgotten it. Not because Jon was disappointed, but because Dad was so bent on making everything perfect. Today he even brought an energy bar, and Jon nods his thanks when I toss it at him.

  “You played hard today, son,” Dad says. The other team made a second-half comeback, but Bentley took it by a point.

  He’s proud and reserved, and did we just catapult back to 1950? You played hard today, son?

  “Yeah. Important game,” Jon says, but I notice he’s not making eye contact with Dad.

  “Two more games until playoffs?” I ask. Last year, Bentley lost the division championship by a game. That was right around the time Dad had started talking about a sports scholarship. You take the team to State a time or two, you might have a shot at a full ride, he’d said.

  Jon takes a swig of his bright blue drink, wipes his mouth, and says, “Yup.”

  “You’ll win it this year,” Dad says.

  Jon shrugs and glances at me with a flash of worry.

  Tate

  The halls of Bentley are empty. When I’m alone, walking these hallways, I own this place.

  I turn left down the music and choir hall where Tate asked me to meet him.

  I follow the unmistakable sound of the piano—bluesy chords overlaid with an excess of high flats and choppy, powerful, syncopated rhythm. Tate’s shoulders are square and his eyes closed while his hands move passionately over the keys. I’m sure he meant for me to see this.

  He looks up with wide, fiery eyes.

  “Beautiful,” I say. And I wonder how he can fish for a compliment with a simple look.

  He grins.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s called ‘No Regrets.’”

  “You wrote it?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Is it true?”

  “What?” He turns on the piano bench, his hands resting together between his knees. He’s all arms and legs, but so at ease in his own skin.

  “No regrets.”

  “Yep.”

  “How can that be true?” I think about all the mistakes I’ve made in life. If I regret nothing, then have I really learned?

  “How can it not be? Regrets are”—he searches for the word—“counterproductive.”

  “But wouldn’t you say if you live life with no regrets, you’re almost living without contemplation? Like, an unexamined life isn’t a life worth living, and all that.”

  Tate smiles. “I didn’t say unexamined. It’s the self-loathing that comes with regret. It’s pointless. Time keeps on tripping.”

  “We must stop.”

  “Stop what?” His grin is full of mischief.

  “Stop speaking in clichés and quotes. It’s nauseating.”

  Tate smiles again. “That’s why I love you, Ade.”

  Love. I know he didn’t mean it like that, but the way love and Ade, those two words, just flew out of Tate’s mouth so effortlessly—it’s like he just pulled a grenade that went off inside me.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a thinker.” He taps the top of my head with his pointer finger, teasing me.

  I laugh.

  “But seriously. You don’t see things the way everyone else does. You don’t act the way everyone else does. It’s refreshing.” He gets up from the bench and grabs his backpack. And so I trail after him.

  No Mom, but Dad

  I started my period when I was eleven years old. Humiliated, I had to tell my dad. I wasn’t expecting it, and sanitary pads were not on my dad’s grocery list. We hadn’t prepared.

  “Aren’t you a little young?” my dad said. As though I’d chosen to start my period. Oh, I’m too young? Okay, then. Forget it. I’ll start again in a few years.

  “I think I’m in the average range,” I said.

  “Okay, do you want me to run out to the store, then? You know, to, um, get the stuff you need?”

  I wanted him to hold me and get as far away from me as possible all at once. I wanted him tell me it was going to be okay. There was blood in the toilet. Though I’d known what it was, I was scared.

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t want to go with him. I couldn’t go with him because the toilet paper wasn’t holding. I’d ruined my underwear, and my lower belly ached. I got a dishtowel and stuffed it into my pants and went upstairs. I’d never missed my mom so much. I lay on my bed crying, waiting for Dad to return with a pad.

  He bought four varieties. Huge packages of them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing for so much. “I think one of these should work?”

  It was a question. It shouldn’t have been a question. I was supposed to be a little girl. Where were the answers I needed from him?

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “We’ll get through it. You’re a young woman now. Tonight we eat ice cream and chocolate. Women like that. Ice cream and chocolate when they have their periods.”

  That night he had Bubbie come over and watch Jon. She winked and asked if Dad had handled everything okay. Did I have what I needed? Yes, I was fine.

  “You are the exact same age your mother was when she became a woman,” Bubbie said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  I burst into tears because I was scared and embarrassed by this change in my body. I knew what to expect, but I didn’t have a mom to prepare me and talk to me and calm me. Bubbie brushed my hair back with her fingers and pulled the thick mass into a ponytail.

  “And she cried just like you are now.”

  “Why?”

  “Well.” Bubbie smiled. “Probably hormones. And maybe she was a little afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Change.”

  At that, I cried harder.

  Bubbie pulled me into a hug. “We’re all a bit afraid of change, my dear.”

  “I’m just. Afraid of losing her more,” I said.

  Bubbie’s eyes welled with tears. It was unusual for her to show emotion, even sadness over my mom. I can’t remember seeing her cry when my mom died. All I remember is having lived in her arms for a few days, the way she’d brush my hair back from my face and neck, my head in her la
p as I stared into space wondering what dying really meant.

  “You can’t lose her more than you already have. And as you grow up, even without knowing it, you become more and more like her.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. And you look just like her.” She tugged on my ponytail. Everyone says that. But when I look in the mirror, I can’t see her.

  It was the closest Bubbie had ever come to complimenting my looks.

  “She’s in you. In everything you do. You don’t have to remember every detail of her for that to be a fact.”

  My dad and I went out for ice cream that night. We didn’t talk about it, so accustomed were we already to avoiding uncomfortable subjects. We both loaded our cups with candy and chocolate sauce and never spoke of periods again. But I understood the gesture. I understood what it meant for my dad and me to be eating ice cream together on the day I’d started my period. And I was grateful for it.

  Dad

  I pull my car into the driveway, making sure I park it in perfect alignment. My dad has his . . . quirks. How we park the car is one of them. Especially because he’s dinged the Honda a few times. He blames it on Jon or me for being incompetent.

  I’m tired. More tired than usual. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that candy in health class—the worst, most uninformative class in the history of high school classes.

  It’s unusually gray, almost foggy, today. The sky is like one giant cloud. Not dense but wispy, smoky, like you could wave it away. I wish I could.

  “I’m home!” I throw my keys on the table in the front hallway and make my way up the half set of stairs to the kitchen. It’s dinnertime. I stayed after school for choir sectionals and a physics help session.

  There isn’t much in the fridge. I grab a block of sharp cheddar cheese and some bread, take out a frying pan and some butter, and start making a grilled cheese. I flip on the stove and startle as the flames burst into a uniform ringlet. I mindlessly butter my sandwich and throw it into the pan. The bread is sizzling and I’m reaching to turn the heat down when I hear “ADEN!”