Chapter 39
On Wednesday, Luke’s team issues an official statement that while he considers me a lifelong friend, he and I are not romantically
linked. Evie and I also dye my hair peroxide blond after school. While we’re waiting for the bleach to set in, my phone buzzes.
Dad, the screen says.
Evie looks at me. “You want to get that?”
I shake my head and ignore the call.
When we’re done and my hair is dry, I look like a totally different person. But in a way that feels like unveiling a new part
of myself, instead of hiding an old one.
Evie and I go to Storrs for the weekend, to escape. Luke’s shoot has begun in earnest, and Glenridge is buzzing with the energy
of the movie. Streets are shut down, there’s no parking anywhere, and wherever I go, I’m reminded that Luke is still here
in Glenridge, and he might be just around the corner. I can’t wait for it to be over.
We’re getting ready to go out when Mara says, “Hey. What if we go to a tattoo parlor tonight instead of a party? I’ve been
thinking about getting another one.”
Evie holds up her hands. “I’m way too indecisive for a tattoo.”
“Claire?” Mara asks.
“Happy to go to support you,” I say.
Nicky drives us, but needles make him woozy, so he waits in the car with the heat blasting. Evie and I go in with Mara.
But when Mara is showing the tattoo artist the design she wants—a thin outline of Saturn, done in the style where the artist
doesn’t lift their pen or pencil or line of ink or whatever . . . I have an idea.
“I think I want to get one,” I say.
“What!” Evie says.
I search furiously through my phone for the photo that I’m thinking of, until I find it.
It’s a picture Mom took of me when I was eleven and we went to Catalina Island on vacation. I’m on the beach, and my face
is in profile. It’s a beautiful picture, but at the time I hated it, because of my nose. I show it to the tattoo artist.
“Do you think you could do an outline of my profile on my wrist? Not the background or anything, just my face. In that same
style?” I ask, pointing at Mara’s planet. “With the continuous lines?”
The tattoo artist takes my phone, considers the picture, and then goes to sketch something out according to my instructions.
“Like this?” she asks.
I take the paper from her. It’s thin and delicate and beautiful.
“I love it,” I tell her.
It hurts like a bitch, but once she’s done, I feel buoyant. I have my old face back. It’s forever a piece of me now, right there on my skin.
When we get back to school on Monday, the entire student center is abuzz with a certain kind of electricity: fresh gossip.
But this time, I can tell it isn’t about me, or the movie. No one even glances at me as I make my way through the room. I
throw my things on the table where Lily, Dylan, and Evie are sitting.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Victor and Genevieve got caught having sex in the gym bathrooms yesterday,” Dylan says. “They both got suspended.”
“Whoa,” I say, sitting down.
“Heat’s off you, girl,” Evie says. “Congrats.”
“I should probably send them flowers,” I say, and everyone laughs.
Later that week, Luke texts me. No words, just a sunset picture of the trail we walked together in the nature preserve. It’s
a very melancholy photo, with the trees bare and the light dim. Autumn is coming to an end. It’s fitting that Luke would be
able to convey so much meaning with a single photograph and no words. It’s been hard knowing he’s still nearby. I guess it’s
been hard for him, too.
But I also know from the articles I’ve read online that he’s still going through with his public relationship with Ani. There’s
a picture of them sitting on the front stoop of his rental house—which, by the way, there is no way is candid, given the length and privacy of its driveway—and she looks serene, her head on his shoulder.
They aren’t wearing jackets and have empty coffee mugs by their feet.
The website the photos get posted on is Backgrid, which is another telltale sign that the pictures are staged. The headline says:
Ana?s and Lucas Going Strong After Cheating Rumors
I don’t respond to Luke. Instead, I block his number. I have the brief, familiar urge to minimize it and move on. But this
time, I don’t want to push my feelings into a box. I don’t want to ignore them and let them eat me from the inside out. So
I open my phone and I call Dr. Z’s office to schedule an appointment.
When I go to see her the Monday of Thanksgiving week, I lay it all out as best I can over the course of the session. I mention
Luke, but I spend most of the time talking about my dad.
“Thank you for trusting me with all this,” Dr. Z says, after I’m done. “I know how difficult this must have been for you to
talk about, especially given our final session, earlier in the fall. But I promise I’ll be with you every step of the way
as you move forward from this.”
“Thank you.” And then, because why the hell not, I ask her, “Can I have a hug?”
Dr. Z nods. “Of course.”
As soon as she comes over, I bury my face in her shoulder and start to cry.
“I know.” She rocks me back and forth in a motherly way. “You were entitled to protection. Your dad was supposed to be a source of safety for you, and he wasn’t. He failed you. And for that I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry.”
After the session, I soothe myself by going to the grocery store.
The entire front wall is papered with drawings of turkeys done by local kids, which is part of an annual competition the store
hosts the week of Thanksgiving every year. I spend a while looking at them. Some of them are really good.
I’m here mainly to buy some cans and nonperishables as my contribution to the food drive Evie and I are volunteering at, which
is happening Wednesday afternoon, but I also text Mom to see if she needs anything. She sends back a very long list, which
is annoying, even though I asked, and she said she’ll reimburse me for everything. Johnny invited me, Mom, and Nicky over
for Thanksgiving on Thursday, since he’s hosting for his huge extended family, and as he said to Mom, what’s three more? In
an alternate universe, maybe Luke would have come along, too. Then again, they’re filming at school over Thanksgiving break,
so maybe he wouldn’t have been able to come anyway. I imagine him walking down the hallways, past the classrooms I’m in every
day, and it’s like I’m seeing things in Photoshop again: each of us a separate layer on the same photograph.
Johnny told us not to worry about bringing anything, but of course Mom would never show up empty-handed.
I can tell from her list that she’s planning to make her pumpkin bread pudding, which is incredibly fussy and requires a blowtorch to caramelize the sugar topping at the end.
I consider teasing that she’s making it to impress Johnny, but decide to leave that tender shoot alone.
I wander through the aisles, brushing my fingertips against all the colorful cans, bags, and boxes the store has to offer.
I think about Dad and try not to let my heart ache too much at the thought of him spending another Thanksgiving alone. When
I’m done shopping, I buy myself the gift of a little chocolate turkey to eat in the car on the way home.
The end of November turns bitterly cold, and December arrives with more snow than we’ve gotten the past three winters combined.
School is canceled for three days straight, and Evie and I spend the entire time camped out in the den, drinking Swiss Miss
and watching holiday movies.
For the first time since moving here, winter isn’t giving me the same feeling it usually does. The feeling that I can retreat
inside, unclench my fists, and breathe. Instead, I feel cooped up, like I have cabin fever. At least the snow forces everyone inside, so the reminders that the
movie shoot is still happening—that Luke is still here—feel smaller.
In mid-December, two things happen. One that I was expecting—the filming ends, the trailers disappear, and, ostensibly, Luke
goes back to California, which honestly hurts so much more than I thought it would—and one thing that I wasn’t.
I get into Tisch early.
At first I assume the packet is more promotional materials. But when I open it, and read the letter, with the “Dear Claire
Hopper, Congratulations!” I have to read it again.
There’s a handwritten note attached that says, We loved your essay. We can’t wait to welcome you to make more art with us in the fall, and it was signed by the admissions officer for my region.
I tell Evie as soon as I get to school, and she literally screams so loud everyone within fifty feet of us turns to stare.
She didn’t apply anywhere early; she said she couldn’t make up her mind, so she has until spring to wait and see where she’ll
be going.
“We’re going out for ice cream during lunch,” Evie says, pointing at me, even though it’s freezing outside. But it’s Friday,
which means Evie was allowed to park, and we have Big Bird to take off campus. She’s done up the interior for Christmas, replacing
the yellow LEDs with a strand of multicolored Christmas lights, and she’s hung an ornament of Big Bird in a Santa costume
from her rearview mirror. I’m surprised she hasn’t added a wreath to the front grille, but maybe that’s next.
As we roll out of the student parking lot, past banks of graying snow, Evie rolls down her window and honks her horn in short
bursts while she yells, “Claire got into Tisch, baby! Ya!”
We’re on our way to Glenridge Avenue, to the frozen custard spot, when I say, “Wait. Can you turn there?” I point to the left,
to the road that leads to the Metro-North station.
Evie changes lanes and then puts on her blinker. “Sure. Why?”
“Can we take a rain check on ice cream?” I ask. “And will you drop me at the train station instead?”
Evie’s eyes widen when she understands. “The train station? Are you, Claire Hopper, about to skip the rest of the school day?”
“Yes.” A nervous giggle escapes me.
“You want company?”
“No. I don’t want you to get in trouble. And I think this is something I should do by myself.”