ISA
I sit on the floor of my room, cross-legged. It’s been a week since the performance, and I haven’t heard from Alex once. I DM’d him two days ago, asking if he was OK. He didn’t respond. I read the beautiful poem he gave me, and Chrissy found the tulips he forgot under his seat. I wish he hadn’t left. I wish we’d gone to dinner as we’d planned. I would have convinced him my parents leaving wasn’t because of him.
Papers lie around me, organized into three piles: what to keep, what to store, what to toss. They’re mostly old school projects. In my hand is an acrostic poem about my brother from the fourth grade—Marvelous, Exciting, Righteous, Resourceful, Inventive, and Trim—decorated with flowers and hearts. I can’t believe trim was the T word I used and that my fourth-grade self didn’t think of trustworthy or thoughtful.
Someone knocks on my door.
“Come in.” It’s Dad—he’s the only one who ever waits for my reply.
Dad pokes his head from behind the cracked door. He looks at the mess on my floor and runs his hand over his stubble. It’s been four days since he shaved.
“How’s it going?” he asks. He comes in and surveys my “toss” pile. It’s about four times larger than my “store” pile and ten times larger than my “keep.” He plucks up the report on top. His mouth widens into a smile under the blond and silver scruff.
“I remember this one. It made your mother and me crack up during your parent-teacher conference. I loved your use of exclamation points.” He flips through some pages. “‘Your eye can work during the day and at night! A little hole, the pupil, opens and closes to let in the light!’ Poetic, informative, and very demonstrative of your unique voice. Mom took this as a sign you were meant to be a doctor. Look at this detail.” He holds up the cover showing a cross-sectional diagram of the cornea, the lens, the retina, and the optic nerve, in crayon.
“Your mom loved these. Where are the rest? Your drawings of the inside of the stomach might have been the most disgusting ones you ever did. Are they still here?” He flips through the pile.
I shake my head. I don’t remember the others. But I remember making books and bringing them to Mom. She always liked them. The predictability of her response was a relief. The voices she used for the different characters were always fantastic, actually. She was like a professional actor when it came to books, any book, not just the silly ones I made. It wasn’t until eighth grade when I stopped asking her to read to me. Sometimes I wonder why I stopped. I wonder if things between us would be different if I hadn’t.
“You know, I used to worry about you. You were always so grown-up, even as a little kid. You did a lot of things to try to please Mom, to keep her happy. You had that one friend, what was her name? With the curly brown hair and glasses?”
“Susana,” I tell him.
“Yes! Susana! When the two of you were together, you would tear around the apartment for hours. Then one night at dinner Mom said she didn’t like Susana. Was it because her hair was never combed?”
I lift a shoulder, even though I remember. It was because Susana threw her coat on the floor, and her socks didn’t always match. Mom said not paying attention to your appearance and not taking care of your belongings showed lack of character.
“You never asked for a playdate with her again. Which was too bad, because with her, you acted like what you were—a little kid. Instead of trying to be a grown-up. Not that I’m saying anything against your mother. I’m sure she would have let you have playdates with Susana if you’d wanted to.”
Dad’s right. The problem was, I didn’t want Susana to come over anymore. I was afraid Mom would say something to hurt her. And embarrass me. Even though Susana always loved my mom. Because she was funny. Because she said the most outrageous things.
Dad thumbs through the drawings. “Then in fourth grade, you wanted to try out for preprofessional dance at the studio. When Mom told you you’d have to give up swimming and gymnastics, you said you liked dancing more. Even when Mom made all those comments about how it’s important to be well-rounded.” Dad puts a hand on my head. “That’s when I knew you were going to be OK.”
I nod. I’m not sure what to say.
Dad’s foot knocks the throw-away pile and papers slide across the rug. He bends down. “Awww. You can’t get rid of this. The Story of the Lost Cat by Isabelle Warren.” Dad starts to read. “‘Cleo was lost.’” He shows me the pictures. “‘She called everywhere for Ella, her owner.’ I like how you got the comma correct here. Though you did spell everywhere with an extra h.”
“I think I did that on purpose. For emphasis. Everywhere-eh.”
Dad nods as if he never thought of this. “‘Ella looked everywhere for Cleo.’ See here, you spelled it correctly. No actually, you made it into two words. Every. Where.”
“Dad!”
“‘Then Cleo saw Ella! Ella saw Cleo! They were together at last! The End.’” He clutches the tiny book to his chest, his fingers framing the crayon drawing of Ella and Cleo hugging with hearts floating above them. “You can’t throw this away.” Dad draws a hand over his face. “It made me cry the first time I read it too.”
“Dad, you did not seriously cry.” I go to snatch the packet away. Dad steps back.
“It made me tear up. Really.” He walks to the window. The sill is bare. The porcelain figurines of ballerinas, one on pointe, one stretching along a barre, and one doing a pirouette, are gone.
“Dad, I can’t keep it. My ‘stay’ pile is already too big.”
“My ‘stay’ pile isn’t. I’ll keep it for you.” He doesn’t turn around. I wonder if he’s looking at the Chrysler Building. The Empire State is Mom and Merrit’s favorite, but Dad and I love the arcs of triangular windows atop the Chrysler. At night they light up, each one a toothy beacon shouting out that this city is the greatest on earth. Because it doesn’t matter where you come from. If you work hard enough, you can do anything. Become anyone.
“Isabelle,” Dad says. “I’m sorry we have to move. And I’m sorry about our new apartment. That there are only two bedrooms.”
I know what building he’s looking at. It’s not the Chrysler. It’s the MetLife Building. His old offices are there.
“It’s OK, Dad. I understand.” It wasn’t his fault he got fired. It wasn’t his fault the stock market tanked and interest rates are rising. Or that the New York real estate market has softened and we’re selling the apartment for much less than Mom wanted, so much less that we’re barely getting anything back from the bank. And we’ve gotten no offers on the Hamptons house so we’re stuck renting it out at cost for a year. Mom’s told me all of it. Every gruesome detail.
“We’re only moving ten blocks north,” I add in my most cheery voice. Dad doesn’t call me out on trying to sugarcoat it. We both know there’s a huge difference between Park Avenue south of Ninety-Sixth Street and Park Avenue north of it where the Metro-North trains run aboveground. There’s also a huge difference between a prewar co-op with doormen to get you taxis and bring up your bags and a rental with no staff other than a live-in super.
“Well, I should have prepared.” Dad looks at the carpet. “I should have saved for a rainy day. Or better yet, a rainy year.” He lets out a gruff chuckle. It’s so forlorn, tears leak into my eyes.
“I was thinking . . .” Dad goes back to staring out the window. “It’s important for you to have your own space. Despite what your mother suggested, with the divider, I’m going to ask Merrit to sleep on a pullout in the living room.”
I wipe at my eyes, careful not to let Dad see me. “Dad. I don’t mind. Really. We’ll have a plastic wall between us for privacy. And Merrit’s going back to college in the fall anyway. I’m sure of it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Dad raises his head. Papers crackle as he unrolls the little book. He comes over and lowers himself next to me. “May I?” He motions to my “toss” pile.
I lift my hands. “Sure.”
I take out the last set of files from my desk. Dad reads through the stories of my childhood, one by one. None make it back into the “toss” pile.
“Hey, how’s that friend of yours? Alex?” Dad asks.
I pretend to scan the old Pointe magazine articles I’d ripped out and saved. “Um . . . He’s good.” I’m not going to tell Dad what happened. I don’t want him to feel guilty about something else that isn’t his fault.
“It was nice of him to come to your performance. I really am disappointed I didn’t get to know him better. Hopefully when things settle down, you can bring him by.”
“Bring who by?” Mom stands in my doorway.
My heart lurches. The shock of adrenaline burns my palms. The night of the performance, after Merrit and Mom had gone to bed, I found Dad in the kitchen staring into a glass of scotch. I asked him how it had gone with Alex. Dad told me he chatted a bit with him, but that Mom didn’t even really see Alex because the lights were dim and she left so abruptly. I don’t know if Mom noticed Alex at all. She’s never brought it up. In a lot of ways, it’s a relief.
“Oh, hi, honey. How did your call with the museum board go?” Dad is an expert at diversion.
Mom trudges into my room. She’s wearing an old shirt of Dad’s and a pair of workout leggings that are now way too loose. “I told them I was stepping down and that I was withdrawing our pledge. You can imagine how it went.” She looks at her watch. “I’ve got another hour before I have to make the same speech again. I’m dreading telling the Bronx kids mentorship program that I can’t give them the money I promised. A lot of those kids were like me.”
“I’m sorry.” Dad reaches a hand for hers.
She takes it and nods. “At least I don’t have to tell anyone about Merrit and Princeton.” Her half-hearted attempt at laughter dissolves and then she’s scrubbing at her eyes and holding a hand to her mouth. Dad rises from the floor and folds her in his arms. He whispers, “I’m sorry,” and “It’ll be OK,” again and again.
I stare at the article I’m holding and pretend to read as Mom’s sobs die. She steps away from Dad, dabbing her face with her sleeve. She looks at me, as if only just remembering why she walked into my room. “Who were you talking about a minute ago?”
Dad answers before I have to. “Oh, just a new friend of Isabelle’s.”
I exhale slowly. Dad’s a fan of minimizing the truth to keep the peace. I learned the strategy from him.
Mom’s frown takes over. “Well, now’s not a good time to bring anyone around. Not when our family is going through so much.”
Dad glances at me. Is that apology in his eyes?
“Of course, Mom.” Not that it matters anymore. Not when Alex won’t even answer my messages.
After Mom and Dad leave, I pull a shoe box out from under my bed. It was from my first pointe shoes. I decorated it with metallic markers and glitter glue years ago, coloring in the long swirls of ribbon that circled all six sides. I lift off the cover. I pass my fingers through squares of paper that have been folded and unfolded so many times their corners are curved. Most are yellow. Some are white. Two were written on pink sheets. And right on top is the envelope from the other day.
I close my eyes and dig down deep. I pull out the winner and spread it flat. I trace the creases and read. I touch the spots where my tears made the ink run. I press my thumb over the A that’s signed at the end.
I fold it up. I put it back. I slide the box deep under the bed so no one sitting on the floor will see it.
That box gets its own pile. The “stay with me always” pile.
•••
The bass coming from Merrit’s room shakes the walls. I feel it in my feet as I walk barefoot down the hall. I rap on the door. I rap again. When I pound, the music lowers.
“What?!” Merrit yells.
“It’s me,” I say back. The music quiets more.
“What do you want?”
“Can I come in?”
“Why? Do you want to have your eardrums blown?”
I chuckle, despite myself. Things can be in shards and Merrit will find a way to make me laugh.
“No. No eardrum shattering. I thought maybe you wanted some help.”
A few seconds tick by. My hands start to sweat. I don’t know if he’s going to let me in or not.
The door cracks. Merrit leans out. He grabs the frame with his hand. His other arm holds the door against his chest, preventing it from opening wider. He’s trying to block me from seeing inside. But the bare mattress, the tumble of sheets, and blankets on the floor, covered with books and papers, a sneaker, a broken lamp, and the familiar red rectangular shape of his chess clock is enough for me to know it’s bad.
“Why do I need help?” Merrit cocks his head. He doesn’t brush away the hair that falls into his eyes. Like Dad, he hasn’t shaved; but on him the result is different. Uneven wisps of blond fuzz mingle with patches of blotchy skin. It’s like someone affixed tape to Merrit’s neck and jaw and ripped it off, only the tape was missing large chunks of stickiness.
“Um, packing?” I say.
“I’m almost done.”
“Really?”
“It’s easy to pack when you’re not taking anything with you.” A clump of greasy hair parts and a light blue eye looks out at me.
“You’re not taking anything?” I put a hand on my waist.
He straightens and lifts a finger, like he’s about to recite in front of an audience. “Four outfits: three everyday, one special occasion. Four pairs of underwear. Four pairs of socks, matching of course.” He glances down the hall and puts a hand to his mouth. “Because you know how Mom gets.” He rams his shoulders back again. “A pair of sneakers, a pair of occasion shoes”—Merrit’s eyebrows jump at that—“a pair of boots for the winter. Oh, and one hat.”
He’s speaking like himself. Which is good. It’s really good.
“Only clothes then?” I ask. “What about your computer?”
He closes his eyes as if my question requires great patience. “I consider that an extension of my personal body. It doesn’t need to be packed. It goes where I go. Along with my phone, of course. My watch. And . . . yes, that’s it.”
I almost ask him about the aviator sunglasses we bought together after Thanksgiving. But I don’t want him to think about Samantha. “How about toiletries?” I glance at his hair. “Shampoo?” His teeth aren’t looking that great either. “Toothbrush?”
He reaches out with one arm and pulls me into a hug. The other still grips the door. “That’s what I have you for. I can borrow yours.”
I breathe through my mouth. He doesn’t smell like magnolia and poppy detergent right now. “God, Merrit.” I try to pull away. “When was the last time you showered?”
He holds me tighter. He tries to push my face into his armpit. He’s joking, or at least I think he is, but I can’t stop the panicked thud of my heart.
I shriek and pull free.
He retreats into his room. The door is now only wide enough to fit his face. It’s squishing his cheeks together. “Don’t know. Don’t care. Come back on the day we’re moving. Maybe I’ll shower then.” He goes to slam the door.
“Wait!” I shout.
The door is an inch from closing. It widens half an inch. I’m both surprised and grateful he listened to me.
“What about your school books?” I ask. “Don’t you still have final papers to write?”
He gives me six more inches. His nose and mouth pop out and he regards me with open irritation. “I’m not going back. Not after the way they treated me. And by they, I don’t only mean the president, and the dean of the School of Engineering. I mean my so-called friends and colleagues, Larry the Louse and Derek the Dick, who sold me out and took my only umbrella when the proverbial shit hit the fan. I mean, they were right, I was the mastermind behind reMAKE, and I did accomplish virtually all the programming on my own. But they were the marketers. They introduced the app to the lacrosse team and the basketball team and the swim team. They were the ones who highlighted that you could secretly record anybody, then change what that person said to whatever you wanted. And even though I know which jocks posted that video of Dean Winters making those inappropriate sexual remarks about her students, because I traced it back to their phones, the school didn’t want to hear it. They didn’t want to have to suspend their star players. But someone like me? I’m expendable.”
Merrit’s cheeks are flushed. There’s spittle on his lips.
I’m afraid to say anything. I’m afraid to move. Mom told me Merrit needed a break. I figured it was the stress of finals. Mom didn’t say anything about getting kicked out or about an app where you can control what people say and do.
Merrit blinks when I blink. The fevered glaze clears from his eyes.
“Um—so it’s like an app to make fake video? Like that Obama clip Jordan Peele posted online?” I ask very quietly.
My brother draws an exaggerated breath. “It was intended for self-help, to allow you to create the best, most highly polished version of yourself. For when your social media interactions really matter. Like say, you’re trying to get back together with someone. Or maybe you want to put a video of yourself and all your attributes on LinkedIn. But yes, reMAKE has that same capability.”
Music is still on in his room. But it’s background noise. Like the rattle and hum of the subway when you’re inside it.
Merrit watches me, his brow still gathered in anger. I nod and drop my gaze, trying to process all that he’s told me.
He says more softly, “I’m not saying I won’t go back to college. Just not that one. In light of our current familial fiscal crisis, this might not be the worst thing.” His door shuts with a click.
I catch tears on my fingertips before they hit my cheeks. The pound of Merrit’s music ratchets up. I stumble toward Mom and Dad’s room, my hand leaving a damp trail across the bamboo frond wallpaper.
Dad’s coming out just as I reach the door. I smile really big, pretending nothing is wrong. Dad and I, we’re the ones who have to stay positive. No matter what.
Dad shakes his head. “She’s sleeping.”
He sees my smile wobble. We both know what that can mean.
“She’s taking her pills. I counted them,” he says. “She’s doing what she’s supposed to.”
“And Merrit?” I look up and beat my lashes like the wings of butterflies. No tears will get through.
Dad sighs. “He’s got an appointment this week.”
“Good.” I press my lips together so Dad doesn’t see them tremble.
Dad touches my head. He goes into the kitchen.
I sink onto my heels, curling into a ball. Bamboo ribbing digs into my shoulders. The familiar sensation gives me the strength to make it to my room. I collapse on my bed. I hang over the side. I pull out the pointe shoe box and one of Alex’s poems.