If You Only Knew (9780698139541) Page 6

  “They seemed really upset,” she said.

  I put down my pen and turned backward on the couch to look through my reflection out at the tree—my favorite talking-on-the-phone position. “Um,” I said. “Yeah. They did.”

  “I think we should end the S.T. What do you think?”

  “OK.”

  “Their haircuts look sort of cute,” she added. “Don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  If you only knew, I thought. I spent all day noticing their haircuts. But I didn’t want anybody to know I’d been thinking about the Levits more than usual. It’s just too weird.

  “Anyway,” Morgan whispered. “Did your dad check Colette?”

  “He’s not home from the bakery yet,” I told her. “Thursday is his late night. But she still has it in there, she showed me.”

  “Are you a wreck?”

  “Yeah.” Although I appreciated her support, I really hate talking about stuff nobody should know. What if my mother picked up? I’d be dead. So I asked, “How was gym?” She has gym while I’m in band, eighth period.

  “Oh, it stunk. Gymnastics.”

  “I hate gymnastics,” I said. “I feel like such a clod.”

  “Well, next to CJ, we all do,” said Morgan.

  Talking with her about CJ made me a little tense. “Please,” I answered. “She can do a split and rest her head in the middle.”

  “I know,” Morgan said. “She learned that in fourth grade.”

  “I know,” I said back, not wanting to lose the who-knows-CJ-better competition.

  “You’re doing soccer, right?” she asked me.

  I was so relieved to be on a normal topic, I said, “Absolutely!”

  “I guess I am, too,” she said. “But I don’t really care that much about it because I want to concentrate on softball. Don’t you?”

  “I like both,” I said. Morgan didn’t make starter last year in soccer; I knew she felt bad about that, no matter how much she denied it.

  “With you pitching, I definitely think we’ve got a shot at regionals this year, in softball, if we focus,” Morgan said. “What did you strike out—seven in that final game last year?”

  “I don’t remember, maybe six,” I said. It was eight. I remembered every pitch.

  “What a game, huh? That ugly girl I thought was gonna cry.”

  “Really?” I asked, feeling happy. “Well, you were great at First.”

  “Thanks. I was thinking, though,” Morgan said, quieter. “Just between us. Maybe it’s good that CJ will be too busy with dance this year to play. Because, no offense, I mean she’s my best friend, but she has no arm.”

  “I know,” I admitted. I felt a little guilty talking about CJ that way, but Morgan was right. CJ is not great at sports.

  We talked softball a little more, and some about soccer, which starts next week, before we finished the homework. When we were done, Morgan thanked me and said, “Don’t say anything to CJ, about what I said.”

  “I won’t,” I assured her. “And I definitely think you’ll start in soccer. You’re probably faster, now that you grew.”

  “Whatever,” said Morgan. “Maybe you could come over sometime next week and we can have a catch or something.”

  “OK,” I said. “That sounds great.” I hung up and called CJ right away.

  “Did you hear about the Silent Treatment?” I asked when she picked up.

  “What about it?” She recognized my voice.

  “Morgan just called for the math homework. We got to talking and she canceled it. She felt really bad, I think. About today. She thinks we maybe overdid it.” I was picturing going over to Morgan’s to play catch. I liked it that she thought I almost made that ugly girl cry. It was great to have had such a normal conversation. I felt like regular old Zoe again for the first time since Labor Day.

  CJ asked, “She called you for the math homework?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I was pacing around the living room, mentally replaying last year’s final game.

  “I can’t believe her,” CJ said.

  “You mean that she’d call me of all people for the math homework?” I asked. “Thanks a lot.”

  “No,” CJ protested. “Not that—”

  “I think she regretted the Silent Treatment thing,” I interrupted, not needing her to apologize. I knew really she was probably upset that Morgan hadn’t called her, since they’re best friends. Sometimes I misunderstand on purpose.

  “No,” CJ said again. “I mean, she did the math homework over the phone with me an hour ago.”

  The game clicked off in my head. I stopped pacing. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m totally, totally serious,” CJ answered.

  “That’s too weird.” I kneeled backward on the couch to sort this out but I got distracted by the swing. Nobody has used it in a really long time. Tommy and Jonas and I used to have contests of who could jump farthest off it. I guess we’re all too old for that, now. That’s what I was thinking about instead of Morgan.

  “She’s probably on with Olivia right now, doing the math again,” CJ said. “I can’t believe her.”

  “Actually, I bet she called Olivia first, to get the right answers.” I laughed. “At least now I don’t feel so stupid!”

  “You know what we should do?” CJ asked.

  “What?” I asked.

  Colette came down and stood in front of me with her hands on her hips. “I need the phone.”

  “We should call her,” CJ interrupted.

  “Who? Olivia?” I asked.

  “No. Morgan,” CJ said. “I have three-way calling.”

  “I have to tell Matt something,” Colette insisted.

  “In a minute,” I said to Colette. She shook her head but went away. “What’s three-way calling?” I asked CJ.

  “You can be on the line secretly while I call Morgan back to ask if she’s spoken to you, and see if she lies, and catch her.”

  I said, “OK.” Don’t be nervous, I told myself—it’s just a prank. I’m not the one about to be caught. Why should I worry?

  As CJ dialed, I listened to Anne Marie drilling Bay on SAT vocabulary words in the dining room. They were cracking up because Devin had just come in and given a disgusting definition of the word pulchritude. When it’s time for me to take the SATs, nobody will live here anymore but my parents.

  On the second ring, CJ told me to stop breathing so loud. I flipped the mouthpiece over my head and covered it with my hand.

  They chatted for a minute before CJ asked Morgan if she had spoken to me tonight. I held my breath.

  “No,” Morgan said. “Why?”

  “Just wondering,” said CJ.

  Gotcha, I thought. Like the FBI was about to burst into her kitchen and arrest her for it. Devin shuffled past me to the den and said, “Your pulchritude is showing.” I put my finger to my lips and yanked my shorts a little lower in case pulchritude meant fat thighs.

  “I feel so bad for Zoe,” Morgan was telling CJ, meanwhile.

  Oh, dread. I settled into the couch to hear why.

  “For Zoe?” CJ asked.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said. “She is such a nice girl. Everybody loves her. But it’s like, all she ever wants to talk about is sports.”

  “Ummm,” said CJ.

  I stopped myself from pointing out that she’s the one who brought up softball, not me. I thought she wanted to talk about it.

  “I guess mostly I just feel bad about the boy-thing,” Morgan said. “You know, like we were saying last night.”

  I bit on my cheeks and kept the talk-part of the phone covered above my head. My heart was pounding really fast. What were you saying last night, CJ?

  “Morgan . . .” CJ’s voice sounded a little shaky
.

  “You know, about the boys not liking her in that way.”

  “I didn’t say that.” CJ didn’t sound so sure. “I don’t know who the boys like.”

  “Come on,” said Morgan. “You know who they don’t like.”

  I swallowed and sank deeper into the couch.

  So boys don’t like me in that way. No big deal. Tommy and I will always be just friends. Obviously. I know who the boys don’t like. It’s not like I’ve never realized.

  “Ummm,” said CJ. “I gotta go.”

  “Don’t say anything to Zoe,” Morgan said before she hung up. I slipped onto the floor and thought, Oh, yeah, CJ? Well, you have no arm! Don’t think I’m the only one people talk about behind her back! You should hear what we were saying about you!

  “I didn’t say that,” CJ said as soon as she cleared off the second line.

  “Hey, it’s the truth,” I admitted.

  “It is not!” CJ said.

  “I know I’m not pretty. No need to alert the media.” I tried to laugh but it came out like pathetic gasps for air instead.

  “Well, if the boys only like girls who are so pretty, then, forget it—that’s just, stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  She didn’t say, Oh, no, Zoe—you are pretty, really pretty. Not that I expected her to. “Stupid,” I mumbled.

  “And Morgan is a . . . I can’t even trust her. I can’t believe she used to be my best friend.”

  “Used to be?”

  Dad’s headlights lit up the window as his car pulled into the driveway.

  “We’re just very different,” CJ said. “Morgan doesn’t understand about, you know, anything, I told you, before. And now I can’t even, I mean, like, you would never talk about somebody behind her back. Right?”

  “Well . . . I gotta go,” I whispered. “My dad’s on his way in.”

  “Call if you need me,” CJ said. “Really.”

  I tried to say thanks but nothing came out.

  eleven

  “Zoe!” Colette yelled. “Are you off? I really need to call—”

  She stopped on the second to bottom step, her hands on her hips, because Daddy was in front of her. Elvis sat down on Daddy’s work boot.

  “Well,” Daddy said.

  Anne Marie and Bay stopped drilling vocabulary.

  “Well,” Colette answered.

  “Is it gone?”

  Colette said nothing. Devin snuck out of the den and sat next to me on the floor against the couch in the living room. “It’s not,” Devin whispered to me.

  “I know,” I whispered back. “Shh.”

  I could see Mom’s feet come down to the landing. “Arnie,” she said.

  “I’m handling this.” His voice was quiet and sharp. “Lift your shirt.”

  “Excuse me?” Colette asked.

  Daddy spread his arms. “Did you think I would forget?”

  “Come on, Arnie,” Mom said. “We agreed.”

  “Lorna? Do not undermine me.”

  Colette’s fingers pinched the bottom hem of her T-shirt. Stay still, I tried to ESP to her—Mom will get Daddy to leave you alone, if you shut up and let her handle this. But Colette narrowed her eyes and said, “I will not lift my shirt for you.”

  “Now!” Daddy yelled. “Do you hear me?”

  I felt Devin grab my hand. I squeezed back and prayed for mental telepathy.

  “I hear you fine,” Colette told Daddy in her too-calm voice. “But you have no right—”

  “I have no right? I have NO RIGHT?”

  “That’s what I said. I guess you can hear me, too.”

  “Don’t you be fresh to me,” Daddy growled. His huge bread-kneading hands were clenching and unclenching. It occurred to me he could punch her. Please, I prayed. Please, don’t.

  Colette’s cheek muscles flexed but she didn’t answer him back. We all waited and hoped.

  “Apologize to your father, Colette,” Mom suggested. “Now.”

  “No!” Colette spun to face Mom. “He has no right to—”

  “To discipline my own child?” Daddy kicked the step.

  Colette flinched, but then yelled, “I’m not a child!”

  “Am I supposed to ignore it when my daughter comes into my house with her body mutilated?”

  “I am not mutilated,” she screamed. “I like how I look!”

  “You look like a whore!” Daddy yelled.

  Colette blinked twice and started to cry, which I could tell really infuriated her because she sucked in her bottom lip and bit it. She didn’t wipe the tears away. She stood still and stared hard at Daddy, who was staring just as hard back at her.

  “I hate you, too,” she said softly.

  Daddy covered his face with his hands. He breathed in, then out, very loud, and then stayed there, hidden in his own palms for a while. I wondered if he was praying.

  When he finally dropped his hands, they were shaking. “Sweetheart . . .” he said, reaching for Colette, toward a big round tear that was tracking down her cheek.

  She swatted his hand away with a fierce slap. Elvis growled.

  “Colette,” Mom warned. “Now, let’s all . . .”

  Colette didn’t look away from Daddy’s eyes. She spoke very slowly. “You have no right to touch me. Ever again.”

  She sniffed once, then cocked her head to the side and lifted the bottom of her shirt a tiny bit, so the little gold hoop showed. I couldn’t believe it.

  Colette turned quick and sprinted up the steps.

  Daddy chased her, snarling, “I’ll tear that thing out!”

  As Colette made the turn around Mom at the landing, Daddy lunged for her, but he got tangled in Elvis and fell. Devin and I were holding on tight to each other, praying for him not to have a heart attack and for Colette to get away.

  Daddy pushed himself back onto his feet and charged again up toward Colette, but Mom stepped down to stand in his way and screamed, “Stop it! Enough!”

  Colette’s door slammed. Daddy punched the wall.

  “What were you planning to do, Arnie?” Mom demanded. “Really! Rip it off her? And then what?”

  Daddy mumbled, “Come on, Elvis.” Together they slunk down the steps and disappeared into the kitchen. The back door slamming was like an echo of Colette’s.

  twelve

  I leaned against the door of Bay and Colette’s room, my wet hair dripping over my shoulders, and waited for Colette to answer. Devin was in the shower, and everybody else was downstairs already, eating breakfast.

  Colette turned around slowly and I saw she was sort of smiling. “Sure,” she said. She pulled a brown T-shirt out of her drawer and held it toward me. “Brown is your color.”

  I hesitated for a minute. “I have Barbies that would be tight on,” I protested.

  Colette threw the shirt down on her bed. “Don’t wear it, then.” She whipped off her nightshirt and reached back into the drawer to pull out a blue-and-white shirt for herself. As she tugged it over her head, I had a chance to check out the hoop through her belly button. The skin around it still looked pretty angry.

  I picked up the brown shirt. “I’ll try it.”

  On my way out, I heard her say, “Zoe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s your body,” she said. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “OK. You all right?” I couldn’t look at her while I asked.

  “Sure,” Colette answered. “I blow off anything he says. So what if he hates me?”

  “Well, if you need, or, I’m sure he doesn’t really, don’t worry,” I stuttered, backing into mine and Devin’s room. I heard Colette kick her dresser. I guess I wasn’t too helpful.

  While I hooked my bra and used Devin’s deodorant, I thought about last night’s dream. It was gym class, and gorgeous Mr. Brock
put me on the boys’ team despite all my protests until I pulled up my sweatshirt and screamed, “Look at these, would you? I’m a girl! I want to be on the girls’ team!” Usually I don’t remember my dreams but this one was pretty extreme.

  I pulled on some white shorts, then sat down on my bed next to Colette’s T-shirt to put on my socks and sneakers. I took a deep breath and thought, If I ever want to try to be a different kind of girl, this is my chance to change. Enough of being one of the guys, buddies with everybody, never draw attention to myself because I’m just a jolly old team player. I have to do this.

  That made me smile. Please, it’s just a shirt. Plus it’s brown, with a little daisy on it in front. Sometimes lately I make such a big deal of nothing. Probably nobody would notice anything different from how I usually dress. It wasn’t a glittery pink leotard or anything like I thought I was a beautiful star.

  “Hey,” said Devin when I reached past her to grab an English muffin off the dining room table. “Nice boobs.”

  I stopped. “Do they show too much?”

  Anne Marie, Bay, and Devin studied my chest. “They sure show,” said Bay.

  “Why not?” decided Anne Marie. “Why should you wear stuff six sizes too big all your life?”

  “Well,” Devin said, “the boys will love it. Hey, Tommy!”

  I looked away. Devin always seems to know my secret thoughts. CJ is lucky to have her own room so nobody can get inside her head.

  We grabbed our lunches. “I hope I don’t sweat,” I said, checking my underarms. “There’s no place to hide in here.”

  We were on our way out the back door, and Mom had already said, “Don’t forget your lunch,” when Colette joined us.

  “Daddy didn’t come home,” Anne Marie said at the corner.

  “Good,” said Colette. They all piled onto their bus.

  When my bus finally came, I sat down next to Gabriela, my nice but boring cousin. Tommy and Jonas stormed on just as we were pulling out. They’re lucky the bus driver is friends with their mother, or she wouldn’t have waited for them. She’s nasty. They slid into the seat ahead of me and Gabriela.

  I tapped Jonas on the head. “You do the French?” Anne Marie had helped me with it in our frightened, quiet house after the fight, because Bay couldn’t concentrate on vocabulary and Anne Marie would rather work than deal.