had an affair," I say, staring straight ahead at the dead-end cracked grey concrete of our quiet little
street, willing the dog to stop.
"What? With who?" Sol gets down on one knee and bends his head, listening, ever listening.
"With our dad."
chapter 14
I'm standing at the window of the hospital room, waiting for our car to come into the parking lot. It's a beautiful day. I
picture Jen and everybody kicking a soccer ball around and wonder if Marco has even noticed that I'm gone. The pain's not
so bad today and I'm feeling less groggy. I put on my uniform—the only clothes that I can see are around—there's still blood
on my collar and shirt front. I can't find my socks so I put on a pair of paper hospital socks and then my shoes. When I finally
see Mom, a nurse comes in with a wheelchair and my file.
"Do I really have to?"
She nods and smiles and then places my knapsack, full of books and sneakers and damp clothes, in my lap. She wheels me out
to the entrance, where Mom's waiting, looking a little red. Her hair's all messed up and when she kisses me she smells grainy,
like Dad used to smell after coming home late at night after staff parties.
"Are you all right?" I ask her. "You seem weird."
"I'm not, I'm fine."
I walk to the car, slowly 'cos it hurts to move too fast, to breathe too deep. Mom holds my arm and looks down at the ground.
She starts the engine and takes the first turn a little wide.
"Am I in trouble?"
Mom slants her eyes at me.
"For what?"
"For this, the hospital, the fight."
Mom looks at the road as she speeds up to stop at a red.
"No, Holly, you're not in trouble."
"Because you can ask Mr. Saleri, you can ask Jen, Ma . .. Look, those girls just jumped on us."
Mom nods and glances down at her hands, which are red and raw.
"I know, honey, I'm believing you."
"You do?"
"Yeah."
We stop at a dessert shop and Mom has coffee and a glazed nut cake and I order cheesecake and a Coke. Mom stares at me as
I gulp it down.
"Do you feel all right? Do you have any pain?"
I nod and continue eating the cake.
"Yours is better, your cheesecake. This thing tastes like a box."
Mom looks so worried and messy, like she needs to be comforted, so I reach out my hand and she takes it, open-palmed.
"I need you to promise me one thing though, Holly."
I throw my fork down. "I told you! It was messed up, we were the losers, they'd already beaten us, why would we—"
"It's not about that. I need you to finish high school. I know you don't like it, but you have to try."
I pick up my fork. "They have a hockey team in high school."
Mom laughs, "No hockey. Pick two sports, just two."
"Can't I pick hockey?"
But Mom doesn't hear my question. She's staring into the grains of her espresso cup, and then, without looking at me, she
says, "We're a family. Aren't we?"
I don't say anything, mushing the crumbs of my cake onto my fork. Then a group of university students comes in. The girls
are Giselle's age. They're wearing cool black and beige clothes and their crisp, citrusy smell fills the warm shop instantly.
They all have long, silky blond hair, and their faces are round and pink. Everything about them seems soft to touch. They
open their schoolbooks while the boys with them go to the counter. I can't stop staring at the girls. They all seem to have
big eyes that roll around a lot as they talk to each other. They seem so constructed, so put-together; their looks and clothes
are so alien compared to Giselle's angles, the holes in her socks and jeans. I think about Giselle's big, raw-boned gestures,
how mannish she is.
I think about how, sometimes at night, I remember a stupid joke I heard at school that I forgot to tell Mom and Giselle, and
then I start thinking about all the trips we still need to take, all the living left for us in the same house, how time might
be running out. I want to tell Mom about those floating night thoughts and jokes and plans and worries but somehow I
street, willing the dog to stop.
"What? With who?" Sol gets down on one knee and bends his head, listening, ever listening.
"With our dad."
chapter 14
I'm standing at the window of the hospital room, waiting for our car to come into the parking lot. It's a beautiful day. I
picture Jen and everybody kicking a soccer ball around and wonder if Marco has even noticed that I'm gone. The pain's not
so bad today and I'm feeling less groggy. I put on my uniform—the only clothes that I can see are around—there's still blood
on my collar and shirt front. I can't find my socks so I put on a pair of paper hospital socks and then my shoes. When I finally
see Mom, a nurse comes in with a wheelchair and my file.
"Do I really have to?"
She nods and smiles and then places my knapsack, full of books and sneakers and damp clothes, in my lap. She wheels me out
to the entrance, where Mom's waiting, looking a little red. Her hair's all messed up and when she kisses me she smells grainy,
like Dad used to smell after coming home late at night after staff parties.
"Are you all right?" I ask her. "You seem weird."
"I'm not, I'm fine."
I walk to the car, slowly 'cos it hurts to move too fast, to breathe too deep. Mom holds my arm and looks down at the ground.
She starts the engine and takes the first turn a little wide.
"Am I in trouble?"
Mom slants her eyes at me.
"For what?"
"For this, the hospital, the fight."
Mom looks at the road as she speeds up to stop at a red.
"No, Holly, you're not in trouble."
"Because you can ask Mr. Saleri, you can ask Jen, Ma . .. Look, those girls just jumped on us."
Mom nods and glances down at her hands, which are red and raw.
"I know, honey, I'm believing you."
"You do?"
"Yeah."
We stop at a dessert shop and Mom has coffee and a glazed nut cake and I order cheesecake and a Coke. Mom stares at me as
I gulp it down.
"Do you feel all right? Do you have any pain?"
I nod and continue eating the cake.
"Yours is better, your cheesecake. This thing tastes like a box."
Mom looks so worried and messy, like she needs to be comforted, so I reach out my hand and she takes it, open-palmed.
"I need you to promise me one thing though, Holly."
I throw my fork down. "I told you! It was messed up, we were the losers, they'd already beaten us, why would we—"
"It's not about that. I need you to finish high school. I know you don't like it, but you have to try."
I pick up my fork. "They have a hockey team in high school."
Mom laughs, "No hockey. Pick two sports, just two."
"Can't I pick hockey?"
But Mom doesn't hear my question. She's staring into the grains of her espresso cup, and then, without looking at me, she
says, "We're a family. Aren't we?"
I don't say anything, mushing the crumbs of my cake onto my fork. Then a group of university students comes in. The girls
are Giselle's age. They're wearing cool black and beige clothes and their crisp, citrusy smell fills the warm shop instantly.
They all have long, silky blond hair, and their faces are round and pink. Everything about them seems soft to touch. They
open their schoolbooks while the boys with them go to the counter. I can't stop staring at the girls. They all seem to have
big eyes that roll around a lot as they talk to each other. They seem so constructed, so put-together; their looks and clothes
are so alien compared to Giselle's angles, the holes in her socks and jeans. I think about Giselle's big, raw-boned gestures,
how mannish she is.
I think about how, sometimes at night, I remember a stupid joke I heard at school that I forgot to tell Mom and Giselle, and
then I start thinking about all the trips we still need to take, all the living left for us in the same house, how time might
be running out. I want to tell Mom about those floating night thoughts and jokes and plans and worries but somehow I
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