The Beautiful Between - Alyssa B. Sheinmel [11]
But, even though I never asked about my father again, things still weren’t the same. On the nights when I would go into her room to watch TV, my mother didn’t hold me like she used to, and we each got our own bowl of ice cream. When I turned nine, she bought a TV for my bedroom, so our nights of TV and ice cream became much fewer and further between. I knew if I said anything to her, it would just bring her back to that day on her bed, to her arms stiffening around me.
I invented a fairy godmother who’d stay with me until I fell asleep—no magic pumpkins, no glass slippers. Just imaginary arms around me until I slept. I looked forward to bedtime. I fantasized about the prince who would come to love me, and about the fairy godmother, always there, putting me into the carriage, arranging my dress just so. I still do; I still look forward to bedtime, and I still imagine my fairy godmother taking care of me; I play a movie of her in my head.
As soon as fifth grade started, I insisted on walking to and from school by myself, even though I didn’t know any other kids who got to walk alone so young. I lied to my mother and told her everyone else got to, and she believed me, even though she could easily have asked the other parents. We live so close to the school, maybe she was sure I’d be safe. Maybe she watched me from the living room window. When I look back on it, it’s amazing I never walked into oncoming traffic. I’d spend those few blocks completely inside my head, imagining my fairy godmother was walking with me. And having her with me, I felt safe. She made me brave. Once, I knew I’d gone too far when, after school, I forgot she wasn’t real and I poured two glasses of milk instead of just one. My mother was in the other room, hadn’t seen me do it, and presumably hadn’t heard me talking to the fairy godmother, but my cheeks were hot as I poured the extra milk into the sink. When I put the extra glass in the dishwasher, it felt like I was hiding something.
No one ever thought I was lying about my father—by now, half the kids in our class have divorced parents, and why would anyone invent such a mundane story? And I never leave the room or make uncomfortable faces when kids talk about their dads. Never sigh with jealousy when people complain their dads are too strict, too hard on them, too embarrassing. I laugh when people talk about the annoying things their fathers do. Everyone knows my parents had a messy divorce when I was too young to know the details, and everyone accepts that, because plenty of kids are in the same situation. But now Jeremy has broken my lie and my skin is itching, as though curiosity could be turned back on like a light.
5
It’s Tuesday, and Kate’s absent. Actually, she’s been missing a lot of days since the school year began; I’d just never really noticed before. Now I kind of miss her. I want to spend time with the girl who thinks I’m cool, because maybe then I’ll start to believe it myself.
After the physics quiz, I try to catch Jeremy’s eye—I actually think I did well, and I want to thank him for his help—but it’s the last class of the day, and he rushes out like he has somewhere he has to be. Probably track practice or something. Of course, Jeremy is the star of every team he joins.
At lunch on Wednesday, Jeremy sits next to me and we begin our Alexis-staring contest. I joke that we’re actually losing weight too; we’re so fascinated by watching her that we forget to eat.
“We’ve gotta get ourselves a new table,” Jeremy whispers to me.
I grin, though certainly I know that if Jeremy leaves this table for another, he isn’t going to take me with him. He could fit in at any table. I’m not so sure about me.
“No, seriously,” he continues. “We’ll start our own table. Healthy eaters only.” He turns his chair around so it’s facing away from the table, and I do the same. He looks around at the cafeteria. I never counted how many tables are in here, but I can tell that Jeremy has.
“’course, it’ll be tough; most