Part 11 (1/2)

My parents say that I have an hour before dinner will be ready. I'm feeling too much to be in the house right now, so I go out to my car, but the s.p.a.ce in there is too small to contain me. All through my chest and my stomach is this regret over what I'm doing with Dylan, in my hands and my feet is this electricity at the thought of Taylor leaning close to me, and all over my whole body, way, deep inside it, is this hurting over Ingrid. I could scream at the top of my lungs and the sound I would make wouldn't be half as loud as I'd need it to be.

An hour isn't a lot of time, but it's enough to do something, so I run across the backyard and down the hill and out to the oak tree and my pile of wood and box of tools and the bolts I bought. The treehouse book says that oak trees are perfect for treehouses, something about how their branches are shaped and angled. I've chosen to build the floor about ten feet up, in a spot where the branches aren't very dense.

First, I have to build myself a ladder.

I hoist up a long plank of wood and lean it against the tree. I pick out a handful of one-inch bolts and hammer them through the plank and into the tree trunk, s.p.a.cing the bolts a foot apart from one another. The hammer feels heavy and solid in my hand. I can still feel recklessness in my stomach. As I work, I lose myself in memories of Ingrid.

The summer after ninth grade, Ingrid and I met two guys who went to a high school a few towns over. It was hot. We were bored. So we wandered the streets with them, ended up at a park they knew. We climbed through bushes and over rocks and ended up at a creek.

We sat with our feet in the water and listened to the friends talk about nothing, and laughed when we knew that something was supposed to be funny. Then, almost midconversation, the taller one leaned over to kiss Ingrid; and the other guy, as if on cue, pushed his mouth against mine. I jerked away-this wasn't what we had planned-and I was sure that Ingrid was going to also. But she didn't. The shorter one put his hand on my leg, but even that was too much, and soon I stood up and stepped deeper into the creek. He muttered something to his friend, and left. I looked into the water, up to the trees, over to where a stranger's hand inched up my best friend's s.h.i.+rt.

Later that night, she said, G.o.d, Caitlin. We were only kissing. G.o.d, Caitlin. We were only kissing. It was true, but I kept thinking about how she felt about Jayson, and how this had been so different, so much less. It was true, but I kept thinking about how she felt about Jayson, and how this had been so different, so much less.

When I've hammered nails up one plank as high as I can reach, I line up another one about a foot away from the first and nail it to the tree. After that's done, I saw a piece off a third plank and bolt it in to make the first step. I look up through the branches and imagine what it will be like when the house is built and I'll sit in this tree and watch the sky turn black.

My dad calls me from the house. I've never felt an hour pa.s.s so quickly. I put my hammer back in the toolbox and close the metal lid. My arms are sore from lifting and pounding, but for some reason this makes me feel satisfied, like I really accomplished something. I walk back up the hill to my house, and wonder what Dylan is doing.

7.

Ms. Delani is wearing a dress today. It's all black, sleeveless and billowy. She has a red scarf tied around her neck, and as she walks past me pa.s.sing back work, her scarf trails behind her in the air. I watch the end of it swis.h.i.+ng around. I want to reach out and yank it.

Then she stops in front of me, and drops a hideous, overexposed picture of dirt on my desk. My landscape. I flip it over. In thick red pen she's written D. D. Below it, Below it, See me. See me.

Back in front of the cla.s.sroom, Ms. Delani says, ”Your next a.s.signment is to take a self-portrait. Build off what you learned last year. And please, please,” she says. ”I want some depth. Some substance substance.”

The bell rings and I slide to the edge of my chair. I don't want to see see her. her.

I try to follow everyone out the door, but Ms. Delani catches me.

”Caitlin.”

I shuffle to her desk.

”Yeah?”

She reaches for the photo in my hand.

”Caitlin.” She shakes her head. ”What is is this? This is not art.” this? This is not art.”

I give her my iciest stare. ”You didn't help me with my goals,” I say. ”I asked you, but you ignored me.”

She sighs. ”First a moving car for a still life. Now an empty lot for a landscape. I know that you are capable of much more than this.”

I look away from her, up at the walls. I scan all the photographs until I find the one of me. ”Actually, that was Ingrid,” I say. ”Ingrid was capable of more than this; I always sucked, remember?” I s.n.a.t.c.h my landscape from her, crush it in my fist, and shove it in my backpack.

She takes her gla.s.ses off and rubs between her eyes like I'm giving her the worst headache. She leans over her desk and puts her head in her hands. I stand there, awkwardly, waiting for her to look up and suggest that I drop the cla.s.s, or tell me not to waste her time, or send me to the therapist again. I wait, and keep waiting. The freshmen start to come in for the beginning cla.s.s. The bell for second period rings.

”Um,” I say, s.h.i.+fting my weight from one foot to the other. ”I kind of have to go.” She still doesn't respond.

Then she sits up. And my heart stops beating. Ms. Delani's lips are trembling, her cheeks are flushed. She closes her eyes and tears run down and pool at the sides of her nose. She doesn't say anything. The freshmen are quiet, staring down at their desks, trying not to look at us. She reaches for a pad of paper and writes something. She hands me the paper and walks back into her office. I look down.

It says, Please excuse Caitlin from second period tardiness.-V. Delani Please excuse Caitlin from second period tardiness.-V. Delani

8.

”So, hey,” Taylor says as he's cramming his stuff into his backpack. ”I'm going over to Henry's to wait for Jayson. We're gonna go to this kick-a.s.s restaurant in Berkeley to get Ethiopian food. Wanna come?”

We've been comparing notes about Jacques DeSoir in the library after school. So far we've decided that we're going to start our presentation talking about how and why we chose him. We also decided to buy a map of Europe so that we can chart all the places he traveled for the cla.s.s.

I feel kind of nervous about going to Henry's, but I also don't feel like saying no and walking home alone when I could be spending time with Taylor, so I say sure. Henry probably doesn't even know I exist, even though we're in English together and I know which block of which street he lives on. I know he lives in a three-story house and that his parents are never home. I know this because he has parties almost every Friday night, and because Ingrid and I would sometimes decide to go, get as far as the front yard, and then turn around when we saw the shapes of all the people inside, heard them talking and laughing, saw all the cars parked out front, and recognized whom they belonged to. Even though we wanted to go, we just couldn't bring ourselves to walk into Henry's house, see everyone already talking to people, already settled and gathered into little exclusive groups, and watch them look up at us and wonder why we were there.

So this is why I know the outside of Henry's house so well, but once I follow Taylor through the door, nothing is familiar. Not the huge family portrait that hangs in the entryway, not the marble floor, or the fountain that spurts water in the middle of it. I wonder what a kid does who lives here alone practically all the time. We turn into the family room.

Henry and a couple other guys I recognize but don't really know are sitting on an expensive-looking sofa, drinking Coronas and staring at the TV.

”Hey,” Taylor says. ”You all know Caitlin, right?”

One of them, not Henry, says, ”Hey.”

They all turn back to the screen. This is exactly what Ingrid and I feared all the times we turned around and walked away from Henry's house. I stand caught in this moment, feeling so unwelcome.

I would like to say that a million possibilities are running through my mind and that I'm just having trouble choosing which brilliant exit line to use, or which joke to deliver that will make all the guys laugh, make Taylor look less nervous, make the tension in the room vanish. But really, I'm just trying to think of one possibility. I'll do the first thing that comes to me. But before I've decided on anything, Henry speaks.

Still looking at the screen, he says, ”Hey, so you're friends with that new girl, aren't you?”

I guess I was wrong; he does know I exist.

”Yeah,” I say, and wonder if this is still true. I guess he really is oblivious if he hasn't noticed that Dylan and I haven't sat together for half a month.

He nods. ”She's hot,” he says. ”Does she like guys, too?”

I shake my head, but realize that no one is looking at me, not even Taylor, who is studying his shoelaces as intently as he had been our Jacques DeSoir book. So I say it out loud: ”I don't think so.”

”Does she have a girlfriend?”

”Yeah,” I say.