17

A WEEK PASSES WITH RILEY ATTENDING TO THE DETAILS OF her grounding like a patient prisoner. “I did not use my phone today,” she reports every evening, showing me her Calls list. “You can check yourself.”

“Hmmm, yes.” I make a big show out of checking, though I can barely work my own phone. “Good job, Riley.”

Each day after school, Riley involves herself in all the clubs available to her that will give her an excuse to do something valid with her peers, exactly as Samantha does. She joins Key Club, the community service club; Art Club; Spanish Club; and even the Chess Club. At these clubs, she laughs and jokes like any other kid who’s been going to a private school her whole life. Gone is the Riley who arrived here, punk makeup and all. I try to be happy; she wants to fit in, but something about how thoroughly the old Riley has disappeared unnerves me. She’s trying awfully hard. Maybe too hard. I say nothing, not wanting to seem critical. Arouse the sleeping dragon.

After our post-school activities are done, I take her home, where we make dinner in relative silence.

Every evening that I’m not at dialysis, Riley does her homework. She stares at the dark TV and her turned-off phone, looking so dejected I almost let her use them. “Would you like to play a board game?” I ask her halfway through her week of no electronics.

She gives me a look like I’m an alien from outer space.

“How about cards?” I suggest.

She straightens on the couch, her posture looking the best it has in weeks. She flips back her new hair. The colors are somewhat dull, the shininess probably bleached out by all the processing, but it looks much more normal than it had before. “For money?”

“How about for pennies?” I get out my jar of pennies. My parents and I like to play cards when they visit. Usually it’s long games like bridge, if we can get a fourth. Dara sometimes submits, but the card games are too long and boring for her. I tell her it’s a mental exercise, and we can still chat while we’re playing. “Texas hold ’em. And then blackjack.”

I deal the cards, explaining how the game works. I’m a pretty fair poker player, and I’ve got no problem with gambling as long as you have the money to lose.

Occasionally, my parents take me to Vegas, where we stay at one of the cheap places off the main strip where my mother gets the rooms comped in return for all the money she loses on slots. Dad and I hit the poker rooms, then blackjack tables.

“This is awesome.” Riley taps the table. I deal her another card.

“It’s better with more people.” We play a few more rounds. Then I show her blackjack, how to get to twenty-one and when to hold and when to double down, when to hit. “Now, this is all important to know. What you do here can mess up your whole table. Some people, like me and your Grandpa, would get mad at you.”

“Can we have popcorn?” she asks, sounding like a little kid again.

“Sure. Go ahead and make some.” I’ll bet her mother has not played games with her, not even Candy Land.

Becky was never one for board games. She was always on the go, always wanting to be out, out, out while I was perpetually stuck indoors. During my long periods of confinement, Mom sent Becky to a neighbor’s, who practically adopted her. I remember going days without seeing my sister. “Where’s Becky?” I’d ask my mother. I’d wanted Becky to stay and play board games with me, or watch television, or sit on the bed and play Barbies. The answer varied: Becky was out whale watching, or at the Wild Animal Park, or simply outside playing. As she got older and could choose her social schedule, she would be out every weekend night. Eventually, Becky became more like a person we saw only on random weeknights and holidays than a true family member.

That Becky felt left out did not occur to me until many years later, before Riley was born and after both of us had ventured out into the world. Mom invited me over for her world-famous tacos. Me, and not my sister.

Becky had shown up that night, dropping off a load of laundry. She froze when she saw us. We froze, too, hunched over our dripping crunchy taco shells as if we’d been caught with gold bullion in a bank.

To my amazement, Mom got a guilty look on her face and began explaining it away as coincidence. “Your sister just dropped in. Would you like a taco?” This clearly wasn’t true, and I was confused for a moment until it hit me. They hadn’t wanted to see Becky.

Becky knew it, too. The air whooshed out of Becky’s step as though someone had whacked her kneecaps with a baseball bat. She sank into Dad’s recliner and retied her shoes, which did not need retying.

“No time, thank you.” Her voice was too chipper, cracking, her hair hung over her face to hide her expression. How could I see such tiny things in my sister when I never even knew what to buy her for Christmas? And why couldn’t my parents see it?

Mom relaxed, going back to her taco. Dad acted as if he had barely heard the exchange at all, his eyes still trained on the football game in the other room.

Only I, confronted with the evidence that I was my mother’s favorite, reached out to her. How can a mother have favorites among her children? At the time, I still harbored hopes that one day I would find some man who could look beyond everything I appeared to be, see who I was. “They’re really good tacos, Becky.”

Instantly she reared back, a cobra attacking. She stood. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you get?”

“Fine.” My throat caught on a piece of shell. I swallowed. “Don’t eat the tacos. I don’t care.” I would not offer again, not offer anything. Couldn’t she see that none of this was my fault? Why did Becky have to punish me?

“There’s no need to be rude.” I thought Mom was speaking to me, but no, she was speaking up for me, to Becky, her tone even more cutting than my sister’s.

I sat thinking of all this now as my sister’s daughter, playing a good-girl role, made popcorn. I had been unlucky in some ways, lucky in others. I wanted, more than anything, for Riley to be lucky in everything.

• • •

ON FRIDAY EVENING, Riley comes in, her chores discharged, wiping her brow dramatically as if I’d just asked her to complete the seven labors of Hercules instead of clean our common bathroom. “My restriction is up. May I go out?”

So it was. Curiously, this week had felt less like a restriction week than a small vacation with my niece. For a moment the word “no” presents itself on my tongue. I flicked it away before I could say it aloud. “Where, with whom, and for how long?” I tick these off, feeling as if something has again slipped away from me before I can hold it. “With Samantha?”

“Are you kidding? Not with her, probably ever again. With some kids from art class. You don’t know them.”

“I know everyone.” The school is not that big.

“It’s just to Rory’s Diner.” She names a popular hangout for the high school kids, a fifties-style joint with an old Corvette turned into a dining table. She slides what look like sleeves cut off an old T-shirt, with thumb holes in them, over her forearms. I realize that’s exactly what they are. “I’ll be back by ten.”

My stomach clenches. I understand, suddenly, Samantha’s mother’s concerns. How much easier it would be for me if I kept Riley at hand, under my roof, in my sight, at all times. But I can’t do this during my dialysis and I cannot do it now. “All right.”

She disappears into the bathroom, and as though on cue, a car pulls up and honks. Riley opens the door. Her black eyeliner is back in place, her hair is slicked down. She wears black jeans and oxblood Doc Marten boots, and a T-shirt with a lacy vest over it, along with those weird gloves. She looks like what I think a typical art student would look like, except with fewer piercings. “See you.”

Her armor is back. I sit upright on the couch. “Wait. Who else will be there?”

She leaps out the door, a gazelle escaping from a lion.

I ponder how she made these plans without using her cell phone or computer. And how she would know I’d say yes.

The phone rings. It’s Dara. I have spoken to her only in passing since I heard her gossiping with Dr. O’Malley.

“Dara.” I try her name out gingerly, not sure how I feel about it.

“Hi, Gal. I haven’t seen you around school this week.”

“My class is still in the same place.”

“So’s mine, oddly enough,” she says drily. “Listen, I’m sorry about the whole Riley and Samantha thing. I know you’re doing your best.”

“I always do.” I consider whether or not to apologize. I decide to do a half apology. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

She hesitates. “How’d you like to go get some food?”

“Love to,” I respond. I nearly wither with relief that my friend is free.

We avoid the burger place with the kids, though Dara could own that joint, with her wide cream circle skirt and her ballerina flats. Her hair is up and out of her face, and she wears no makeup except for lip gloss. “You look classy,” I say to her.

She tosses her hair back. “I am classy, Gal.”

“Hey, classy is a compliment to some people.”

After a discussion about what I can eat, we choose a soup and salad place, which has enough variety for the both of us.

I pile a plate with soft French bread and pasta with white sauce, and another with Romaine, zucchini shavings, cucumber, and celery. I have to avoid high-phosphorus veggies, and I’m allowed just three half-cup servings of each permissible vegetable. However, I can eat as many bread products as I like, provided they are not whole-grain, because those contain too much phosphorus.

Dara eyes my plate as she adds a high-bran muffin, no butter, to her plate of greens. “I wish I could have that pasta.”

“Maybe so, but you probably don’t want the rest of the package.” I avoid the tomatoes and the soups, all of which seem to have some kind of potato in them, which are also banned.

We sit at a wood table so heavily lacquered I can see up my nostrils when I glance down. I move my plates of food in front of me. I consider whether to tell her I heard her talking to Dr. O’Malley in the hallway about my stubbornness. The only reason I think I’m right, I want to point out, is because most of the time I am. I shouldn’t have to change my mind simply because someone else has a different (and wrong) opinion about a situation.

Dara should know by now that I don’t avoid doing things because they are easier. It would have been easier for me not to involve Samantha’s mother, for me to cover up for her daughter. But then if something else happened later—say, Samantha went out again without her parents’ knowledge and got into serious trouble—surely I, as the adult involved and a teacher to boot, would bear responsibility. Samantha’s parents would say I should have told them at an early stage.

I don’t want to get back into any unpleasantness with Dara. The sting of her words with Dr. O’Malley has worn off. I’ve heard worse about me. Sticking to a position, in my opinion, is a character virtue, not a flaw.

“Excited about the rose show in Pasadena?” I ask.

She nods, but grimaces. “I am.”

I grin. “You know, Byron will be there.”

“Byron the great and powerful?” She takes a small bite of bran muffin. “I can hardly wait. What am I supposed to do with a guy in another state?”

I shrug. “Same thing you’d do with a guy here, probably. Not get serious about him.”

She ignores this jab. “Gal. I’m still not sure I can go. It’s pretty tight for me right now. I’m saving for a house.” She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Oh.” I can’t fault her for that. Still, I don’t want to think about the possibility she won’t go. “But you’ll probably come, right?”

“I’ll have to see after our next paycheck. I have a lot of credit cards to pay off.” She changes the subject. “How’s the science team coming?”

Dara just has to come with me. I wait until I swallow before responding. “Just fine.”

“George says you need another alternate for the trebuchet.” She focuses on her plate.

I put down my fork. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to put the pressure on, too. Riley is not coming on the team.”

She holds up her hand. “One, chill out. Two, you are not the Grand Poobah. You don’t have final say in everything.”

“I do in this.” Science Olympiad is my territory. “Why don’t you start an art team?”

“There can be no art team. Art is too subjective.”

“I thought you always said you know good and bad art when you see it.”

“But that’s only me.” She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Gal, has it occurred to you that if you do let Riley on the science team, she might be inspired to work harder in your class?”

I waggle my finger. “That’s not the way it works. First she works hard, then gets rewarded. Not being lazy, and then getting special treatment.”

“Who is it going to hurt?” Dara asks.

I stare at her. She should let this go. The only answer for why she won’t is Mr. Morton. Mr. Morton is pillow-talking her, complaining about me. The thought of Mr. Morton and Dara pillow-talking is too much to bear, and I get up abruptly, shaking the unsteady little table. “I’m going to get more pasta.”

I take my time at the pasta station, watching the cook heat up the sauce and the rigatoni in the big wok pan, waiting for a fresh batch although more than half a bowl is still in the serving area. Whatever happened to people proving themselves first, then getting rewarded?

I see Dara on her cell phone, talking away. Mr. Morton. How much do they see each other? Are they calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend yet? Dara hasn’t seemed to mention any of her other hangers-on these days. I get my fresh pasta plate and return to the table as she hangs up.

“It’s like credit,” Dara begins.

“What’s like credit?” I burn my tongue on the pasta and take a gulp of water, which uses up all my water for the day.

“People get into trouble with credit. Maybe they lost a job and couldn’t pay a bill. Then the credit companies jack up the rate and make it harder to pay off. They can’t get credit because the rates are too high. But these are the people who need a break, so they can pay off their bills.” Dara looks pleased with herself.

“People should live off what they make, not use credit cards,” I say piously, blowing on my pasta. I know she’s talking about herself.

“Not everyone has parents to help them out, Gal,” she says, her tone hard. “That’s not the point.”

“Yeah. I get it. Riley needs a break because she’s so far behind. I get it. Did Mr. Morton just tell you to say that?” I jerk my head toward her cell, lying on the table.

“No.” She eats her salad quickly. “You know what, Gal, you’re impossible sometimes.” She gets up. “I’m going to get more bread. You want anything?”

I reply in the negative. Impossible. Yes, I am impossible. Everything about my life seems to be one grand impossibility after another.

I play with the pasta, thinking about Dara. I never did tell her about the rose show results. Nor has she asked. It would be like Dara getting married and me not asking her how the wedding was. Sure, I could just tell her, but shouldn’t she ask if she really cared?

For the first time, I get that my friend has a different agenda than I do. Different opinions. We are possibly two people that should not converge so much any longer. I want to weep.

I do not. Instead, I wait for Dara to return, then tell her I’m not feeling well. I leave the restaurant before she can voice a protest or a concern.

• • •

LATER THAT NIGHT, I’m in bed reading the Winslow Blythe rose book, waiting for Riley to return home. I’ve left on the porch light and two lamps in the living room, plus the light in her bedroom. Now I skim the words over and over; I already know them nearly by heart, and the book only serves as company. The paper rustles comfortingly under my fingers as I listen for a car to slow. All I hear is the refrigerator, my old companion.

At last, at precisely ten, the front porch creaks and the front door clicks shut. “Riley?” I call.

She closes her bedroom door without answering. Uh-oh. I get up, shoving my feet into slippers.

“Riley?” I knock, then enter. She’s lying on the bed, facing the wall, her back to me. “Everything okay? Did you have a good time?”

She does not answer. Her breathing is ragged. Crying. I sit on the bed next to her, touch her back. “What happened? Talk to me.”

She turns over. Her makeup is smeared all over her face in garish streaks, her eyes streaked with red. It reminds me of finding her outside, gripping that golden retriever’s fur, when she was a toddler. “Nothing. I’m just sad.”

I lean into her. “Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” A sob chokes her.

A smell like sweetly rotting fruit comes off her breath. Alcohol. I lean in and smell her jacket. Cigarette smoke and pot. I fight the growing panic rising inside. “Riley. Tell me where you where and what happened. You were drinking and smoking.”

“I didn’t smoke anything. Other people were.” She covers her eyes with her hands, not denying the drinking.

Fear tumbles my stomach. I put my hand on her. “Did someone do something to you?” A million possibilities rush through my head. Someone giving her booze on the sly. Rape. Roofies. Who knows?

“No. No one did.” She takes her hands off her eyes and blinks at me. “We were out in the field behind the old Schaeffer place. A bunch of us. Samantha, Brad, pretty much half the school.” Tears fall again. “I only had a few sips, Aunt Gal. I swear. I . . .” She trails off, turns away again, covers her head with the pillow.

I want to smack her. “Don’t you know the trouble you could have gotten into?” She’s turning into Becky. Who knows what she and Becky did together. Maybe she already is like Becky. Frustration gets the better of me. I hit her wall with my palm. “This is unacceptable. You know that.”

Her shoulders shake. She’s hyperventilating.

I rub her back. “Riley. Take deep breaths.”

She tries to say something, but she’s hiccupping now. She turns over to face me again, taking one giant breath to steady her diaphragm. “I’m sorry, Aunt Gal.” She is so sorrowful, my heart breaks.

I exhale. “I’m going to have to punish you again, Riley.”

She nods, her eyes squeezing shut. “Aunt Gal. Why did my mother send me away?”

My heart catches. This is why she’s done this. “She didn’t want to, sweetheart.” I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s what she needs to hear.

Her face crumples again. “I was good. And she didn’t want me.”

“She does want you.” I stroke her hair. I am close to crying, too.

She shakes her head. “Not enough.” Her breath shakes her body. “Can I . . . can I call her now?”

“Sure.” I get up and leave, shutting her bedroom door.

In the living room, I sit on the couch, putting my feet on the coffee table. Wondering how I can stop Riley from becoming Becky. Being with Becky has screwed her up. Becky leaving her has screwed her up, too. Riley is going to have problems either way. I take off my glasses, rub my eyes. Something hard is in my throat, something that won’t be swallowed away.

Riley opens the door. “She didn’t answer.” She’s taken off her jacket, her posture slumped. She looks like the Little Match Girl.

I am a little glad her mother didn’t answer. I’m not sure Becky would have helped. I pat the couch next to me. “How about some late news?”

She sits next to me, close but not touching. Her makeup and tears have dried. I reach over and grab a tissue out of the box, wipe her face. She does not move.

I turn on the television, and we watch until Riley’s eyes begin to close.