Inevitable and Only Page 7

  She saw me glancing at her schedule and held it out, so I took a good look and saw that we wouldn’t be sharing many classes, either. Which made sense. Elizabeth was a junior. She was only six months older than me, but that put her a grade ahead. She’d gone to Catholic school in Ohio, and she seemed nervous about Friends. She’d asked me twice that morning, while we were getting dressed, if I was sure there wasn’t any sort of uniform or dress code. When she’d seen my outfit—tight black jeans with patched knees, purple ankle boots, and a blue-and-green sweater with multicolored buttons sewn all over it—she’d said, “You’re wearing that to school?”

  I’d muttered, “Yes, Mom,” and then immediately felt terrible. I tried to cover it up with a laugh, which only made things worse. Her freckly face reddened as if I’d slapped her, although she tried to hide it by going quickly to the vanity mirror across the room and brushing her hair. Her shoulders slumped. It looked like she was trying to retract herself into her own body. The only sound was Josh, practicing minor scales down the hall. Slowly. Very slowly.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry. I’m always a grump in the mornings. But I do the best French braids on the planet. Want me to do your hair?”

  “I always wished my mom knew how to braid hair, but she was terrible at it.” Elizabeth spoke so softly I could barely hear her, and for a moment I almost wondered if I’d imagined the words—until she turned and sat primly on the edge of her bed. I knelt behind her and began crisscrossing strands of that long strawberry-blond hair. Dad’s hair.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I told her.

  She actually smiled—a tiny one, but I saw it in the mirror. “Thanks. I really like your highlights. Did your parents freak out about them?”

  “Not really,” I lied. “Okay, just a little bit. But at least they’re not permanent. Mom said the hair dye was fine but I’m not allowed to pierce anything except my ears until I’m eighteen.”

  Her eyes widened. “Would you want to pierce something else?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. I like eyebrow rings. And lip rings. A belly button ring sounds too painful, plus what if it gets caught on your shirt or something and you rip it out?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Exactly.” I wrapped a hair tie around the end of her braid and slid off the bed to examine my handiwork from the front. “Oh, it looks great! But wait—can I try something else? We have ten more minutes till we have to go, and I never get to practice on anyone.” Raven never let me play with her curls.

  She checked her watch. “Sure.”

  I undid the braid, brushed her hair out again, and clipped half of it on top of her head. Then I French-braided the rest from the nape of her neck up to the crown of her head, braided a few strands back from her temples, and gathered all that hair into a neatly coiled bun. I stepped back to evaluate.

  Elizabeth looked in the mirror and gasped. “Wow. I have Renaissance Festival hair! I love it. Thanks, Acadia.”

  “That was fun,” I said. “And it’s Cadie.”

  She smiled at me this time, and I smiled back. “I’ve always wanted a sister,” she said.

  I couldn’t truthfully say the same, so I was glad that at that moment Mom called up the stairs, “Girls! Time to go!” and we headed off to school.

  The first thing I did once Dad finally left, of course, was to check the bulletin board outside the cafeteria. But audition results weren’t up yet.

  I filled in Elizabeth about Meeting as we waited in the crowd of students milling around outside the cafeteria.

  “Quakers call their service ‘Meeting for Worship,’ but it’s not about worshipping in the sense of priests and prayerbooks,” I said, then quickly added, “not that you aren’t welcome to worship, of course. Worshipping is fine. But I mostly think of it as, like, a chance to clear my head. People can stand up and speak, if they feel moved, but you definitely don’t have to.”

  “Speak about what?”

  “Anything that’s on your mind. Deep thoughts. Spiritual stuff. Current events. Whatever.”

  Elizabeth was looking at me as if I’d just announced that we were going to sacrifice a goat and dance around a bonfire.

  I sighed. “I’m sure it’s really different from Catholic school. But it’s not so bad. And we only do this on Tuesdays.”

  I imagined a little speech bubble over Elizabeth’s head: So God doesn’t exist the rest of the week? But all she said was, “It sounds interesting.”

  “The other days, we have electives. I’m doing yoga.” I checked Elizabeth’s schedule. “Oh, you’re signed up for Student-Led Readings. Mom taught that last year. All the students take turns picking something for the class to read that they think is—” (I made air-quotes with my fingers and imitated Mom’s voice) “—‘intriguing, instructive, or incendiary.’”

  Elizabeth was biting her lip and looking nervous.

  “You can probably get excused from Meeting if you really don’t like it,” I said. “Everyone’s very flexible around here.”

  “Is it all the yoga?” she said, and it took me a second to realize she was trying to make a joke. “You know, flexible.”

  I grinned at her to show I got it.

  Elizabeth sat quietly next to me through Meeting. After a few minutes of silence, Kieri Cantor stood and said her older sister’s baby was due any day now, and asked us to hold her in the Light. I closed my eyes and pictured Kieri and her sister and a new baby, surrounded by a warm, protective glow. Then Josiah Sampson stood to talk about how the president was creating our generation’s Vietnam by sending troops to the Middle East. Manny Sampson (his twin brother) rose to say that Vietnam was totally different, dude. He sat and we all absorbed that for a little while. A minute or two later, Heron Lang got up and said she’d noticed some street art on an abandoned building that morning on her way to school, and it made her think about how even broken-down things can be reborn. We sat in silence after that until we closed Meeting by shaking hands with our neighbors.

  “I thought Quakers were pacifists?” Elizabeth said as we left the cafeteria. “That was a lot of war-talk for a prayer meeting.”

  “Well, it’s supposed to be a time for quiet contemplation, not political arguments, but I guess pacifists get more upset about violence than most people. Plus, we’re not all Quakers. Even though I think I’m more Quaker than Jewish at this point.”

  At that moment, I saw a crowd clustered around the bulletin board, and I bolted for it.

  As I looked up at the board, an ache hit the spot right between my eyebrows. That feeling I got, once in a while, when I knew something was going to happen right before it did. Like the time Dad and I went to outdoor Shakespeare last summer, and we entered the basket raffle at intermission. Right before they drew the winning slip of paper out of the basket, I got that ache in the center of my forehead, and then I heard, “And the winners are … Ross and Acadia Greenfield!”

  There it was. At the top of the board, the first two lines of text under the heading MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING CAST:

  Benedick—Zephyr Daniels

  Beatrice—Acadia Greenfield

  Elizabeth had counseling during the last period of the day, so I waited for her outside the guidance office. She emerged with red, puffy eyes, and looked embarrassed when she saw me there, so I bent down to my backpack and pretended to reshuffle my books and papers. “Josh has a double cello lesson at Peabody today,” I said. “He’s preparing for a big competition in December. So Mom drove him there, and we’ll take the bus home.”

  We walked down the hall in silence. I wanted to ask her how her first day had gone, but I wasn’t sure if she felt like talking. And what could I expect her to say, anyway? Yeah, I love your hippie school, where you call the teachers by their first names and talk about war and graffiti at your prayer meetings. Oh, and the fact that my mom just died? No big deal.

  As we walked past the cafeteria, I remembered that I hadn’t read the rest of the cast list that morning. I paused to scan it. At a school this
small, most of the names were familiar, even if I didn’t know anyone else in the cast very well. Then I saw “Micayla Cooper” at the bottom, under “Costumes & Scenery.” At least I’d have a friend to go to rehearsals with. And thank the gods Micayla had her license, so she could drive us.

  “Hey, Acadia! It’s you!” Elizabeth pointed at the top of the list.

  “Cadie, but yeah,” I mumbled, blushing, and started walking again. She must’ve thought I’d stopped just to point it out to her.

  Elizabeth ran a few steps to catch up to me. “I didn’t know you were into drama. That’s so cool.”

  “Well, this is my first time being in a play, but my dad and I go to a lot of theater. Mostly Shakespeare. He’s really into Shakespeare. And Marlowe. Did you know he was doing his PhD on the friendship and rivalry between Marlowe and Shakespeare?”

  The bus pulled up, and I thought I’d better stop myself before I blabbered nervously the entire way to Fine Print. We sat in opposite seats near the front, and the doors hissed shut. “Oh, by the way. I was thinking we’d stop by Dad’s bookshop. Unless you want to go straight home, of course.”

  “No, no!” Elizabeth actually looked excited. “I definitely want to see the bookshop. He told me about it on the ride from Ohio.”

  “It’s the best secondhand bookstore in Baltimore.” I didn’t mention that Dad had been living in exile there until a few days ago.

  When we reached Fine Print, I pushed the door open and walked in, and the bell tinkled behind us. Elizabeth looked around in awe. “I still can’t believe your dad owns a bookshop.” As if she was saying, “I can’t believe your dad owns the Vatican.”

  I had to bite my tongue, but in my head I yelled, He’s your dad, too, remember?

  She said, “I mean, this is like my dream come true. I can’t believe this is your life! Do you hang out here a lot? I’d love to hang out here. Can we read anything we want?”

  I hadn’t heard her say that many words at the same time since she’d arrived.

  Dad came down the stairs at the same moment that Cassandra emerged from the stacks, holding Bosch in one arm and half a dozen volumes of Dickens balanced in the other.

  “Cassandra,” said Dad, “this is my other daughter. Elizabeth.” He put an arm around each of us.

  Cassandra’s eyebrows shot up, and for once she looked directly at another human being. She studied Elizabeth from her head to her toes. I knew what she was seeing: the strawberry-blond hair, the freckles, the red-rimmed blue eyes. I didn’t know if Dad had told her what was going on or not, but she certainly seemed surprised. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had told her, and she just hadn’t deemed it important enough to remember. Since it didn’t involve books, the bubonic plague, or felines.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said finally, and I shot a look at Dad, who was doing his best to keep a straight face and not meet my eyes.

  Cassandra set the books down on the front desk and returned to the back room for more—still carrying Bosch—and I turned to Elizabeth. “She spoke to you!” I said. “That can only mean one thing. You’re actually a cat.”

  Dad lost it, doubling over with laughter. Elizabeth grinned at us and shook her head. “She seems like a perfectly nice woman.”

  “Shhh!” Dad hissed, trying to catch his breath. “She’s coming back.”

  He made a break for the stairs, and we followed him up to his office.

  It felt weird to hear Dad crack up, when I … couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that. Not since he’d told us about Elizabeth. How could he be so happy, so relaxed? It seemed easy for him. One daughter, two daughters—whatever. No big deal.

  “Do you mind if I go look around?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes shining with anticipation. “I love books.”

  I remembered the duffel bags I’d hauled upstairs last night.

  Dad’s whole face lit up. “Yes, absolutely, pick out whatever you’d like! Anything in the shop. Take it home, read it, bring it back only if you don’t think you’ll read it again.”

  Elizabeth looked like she’d just been handed a million bucks.

  I like to read, too. Mostly mysteries and fantasy. Even some sci-fi. But I’ve never been into the dusty classics stacked up on all three floors (on the shelves, in the aisles, on the footstools) of Fine Print. Dickens, Dostoyevsky, Dickinson—authors I only read in school when I have to. Sure, I like books. But I looked at Dad’s face as he watched Elizabeth disappear into the shop, and I saw that I didn’t like books enough.

  I pushed that thought as far down as I could, to a place where it roiled angrily in my stomach, and took a deep breath. If Dad could pretend nothing was wrong, then I could, too. “So Dad, I, um … I have good news.”

  “Oh?” he said, drawing out the word. Dramatic Pause Voice. Just like the laughing downstairs, it was weird to hear Dad doing voices as if nothing had changed.

  “Guess,” I said.

  He pretended to ponder. “You and Raven have decided to join a convent.”

  I raised an eyebrow, not dignifying that with a response.

  “Well, Mom told me about the Fall Ball, and I do think we need to discuss some ground rules—”

  “Dad.” I was in no mood for Responsible Parent Voice. “They posted Much Ado results.”

  He did a double take. “Much adid they?”

  I ignored that terrible joke and waited.

  “Well???” he said, drawing question marks in the air with his finger.

  “Beatrice!” I exploded. I couldn’t help it. I was too excited to keep pretending I didn’t care. “I’m going to play Beatrice!”

  Dad did a little caper around the room—I kid you not, my father knows how to caper—before scooping me into an enormous hug. “Acadia Rose Greenfield’s big debut!” he said, too genuinely happy to do any voice except his own. “My little thespian! When do rehearsals start? Do you need help running your lines? When’s opening night?”

  At first I went rigid against the hug, but after a moment, I felt that chilly place in my stomach soften. I let Dad prattle on, interrupting one question with another, telling me over and over how proud he was. Not even noticing my silence. Maybe it didn’t matter after all if he had two daughters instead of one. Maybe, eventually, we could go back to the way things had always been.

  Except I knew it wasn’t possible, not really. From now on, I had to share him with a sister. A stranger with blond hair and preppy clothes, who walked around on tiptoes so she wouldn’t spill the heavy, heavy load of grief she was carrying. And what if Dad had more secrets, more parts of his life that I’d never known about? How could I ever trust him again?

  “Okay, chill out,” I said, pulling away without making eye contact. “I just thought you’d want to know.” I picked up my bag and left the office, even though I could practically feel his hurt radiating toward me across the room.

  The future was a stack of unread books. Dad had pulled out the book at the very bottom, and now the whole stack was about to topple over.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Things were tense at home that whole week. Dad kept bringing Mom bouquets of flowers, and even a giant box of her favorite dark chocolate coconut truffles one night, as if he could buy his way out of trouble. And he was still sleeping on the couch, although he tried to get up early and move the pillows and blankets so Josh and Elizabeth and I wouldn’t figure it out. But every night when I got up to go to the bathroom or get a glass of water, there he was—tucked in neatly and snoring away.

  Elizabeth took forever in the bathroom in the mornings, and her showers used up all the hot water. I started showering at night just so I wouldn’t have to get up ridiculously early to sneak in a shower before her. I noticed that Mom did, too, although she didn’t say anything about it. Or at least not to us.

  Meals began with grace, then limped along without it. (Ha—Dad would’ve enjoyed that line, but I wasn’t in the mood to tell him jokes.) Mom avoided talking to Dad, and tried
overly hard to be nice to Elizabeth. Josh was silent. I tried to make conversation, but Dad kept turning everything I said into a question for Elizabeth, who gave one-or two-word answers.

  On Thursday night, Dad asked about her progress with the stack of books she’d borrowed from Fine Print, and Elizabeth finally smiled. They started discussing a book of Edgar Allan Poe stories. I squirmed on the stupid folding chair I kept getting stuck with—I didn’t want to complain about it and sound whiny, but it did make my butt go numb.

  “Did you know that Poe’s grave is here in Baltimore?” Dad asked.

  Elizabeth’s (perfectly sculpted) eyebrows shot up. “No way!” (Side note: Have I mentioned the amount of plucking I have to do every week in order to see out from under the caterpillars on my forehead?)

  “We’ll plan a visit,” said Dad. “How about this weekend?”

  Dad used to take Josh and me to Poe’s grave on Halloween every year. Now we’d have to share that tradition with Elizabeth, too. I pushed my food around on my plate. Poe’s grave was stupid, anyhow. I was getting too old for that nonsense.

  “Can I be excused?” I asked. Mom nodded, and I went upstairs. First I packed my overnight bag. Then I called Raven. The Woodbury sisterhood had no rules about sleepovers on school nights.

  “It’s not fair,” I complained from the back seat on the ride to Raven’s house. She and Ruby had driven over to pick me up, and I was out the door before Mom could protest—or maybe Mom just didn’t want to start a fight in front of Elizabeth. “How are you so good at driving already? You’ve only had your permit a month longer than I have.”

  “Well, I didn’t quit after my first lesson,” Raven said, executing a perfect lane change.

  “She’s driving about ten miles under the speed limit,” her grandmother pointed out.

  Raven took one hand off the wheel to swat at her, and Ruby clucked her tongue. “Both hands on the wheel, young lady.”

  “But you drive with your knees sometimes and no hands on the wheel!”