Keeping the Moon(25)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“You’re wrong,” she said quietly, leaning back again.

“Yeah, right,” I said. She could have been Caroline Dawes then, for all the anger I felt simmering in me. “Then what were you?”

“I was afraid,” she said. And she turned her head away, looking back at the bright lights of the little house. “Just like you.”

We sat there for a moment, watching Morgan move through the living room.

“It’s so, so stupid,” she added softly, “what we do to ourselves because we’re afraid. It’s so stupid.” And she kept her head turned, as if I wasn’t even there.

But she was wrong. She wasn’t anything like me, and I was so close, again, to telling her why. To telling her everything. But just as I started, she turned back and I lost my nerve.

I thought of my mother, suddenly, of all those caterpillars waiting to Become. Of Mira, pretending to ignore the taunts that followed her. Of Morgan with her square face and lover’s grin. And me and Isabel, under a big yellow moon.

Isabel didn’t move when the car passed Mira’s driveway and pulled up in front of the little house. She didn’t turn around as someone got out of the car and strode up those stairs, Morgan running to meet him halfway. And she didn’t say a word as they went inside, the lights clicking off behind them and leaving us in the dark, with only that moon and the light from Mira’s window to see our way back.

Chapter nine

The next morning, the real Fourth of July, I woke up early to go for a run, leaving Isabel crashed on the sofa. I could hear the floor creaking overhead as Mira got dressed and collected Cat Norman.

On my way down the path I passed by Norman’s door. It was ajar and I decided to stop in and thank him for the sunglasses after all. When I knocked, the door fell open. The room was packed: canvases lined the walls, stacked against each other, and hanging from the ceiling were at least ten mobiles, all of them shifting in the breeze coming in behind me. They were made of odds and ends, bits and pieces: bicycle gears, old Superballs, tiny framed pictures cut out of magazines. One was just made up of old metal rulers and protractors, clinking against each other. The mannequins he’d carried in on my first day were leaning against the wall, their midsections painted wild colors, arms stretched out, fingers Day-Glo and cheerful. The bazaar was tomorrow; I couldn’t imagine where he could fit anything else.

I found Norman in the corner on a futon, asleep under a mobile of different-colored sunglasses parts. The room was cold and he was murmuring, shirtless, the sheets tangled around him. I couldn’t take my eyes off him: his face was flushed, one arm thrown over a pillow, fingers brushing the wall. He looked different to me somehow, like some other guy, one I’d never met. And I felt strange, as if he might at any moment open his eyes and I’d have to explain myself, standing there without the food window or a shared purpose safely between us. I backed away quickly, bumping against a mannequin on the way out. But I wondered for my entire run what he’d been dreaming.

The beach was cool and misty, and as I ran I kept thinking of Mira, too, remembering what Isabel had said the night before. What we do to ourselves because we’re afraid.

I knew one person whom I saw as mostly fearless. And I knew she was the only one who might understand.

“Colie?” I could hear the phone jostling around as she sat up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

My mother was in Spain. I’d had to go through three operators, two hotel clerks and one new, irritated assistant to get to her. “I miss you,” I told her. It was always easier to say it over the phone.

“Oh, honey.” She sounded surprised. “I miss you, too. How’s everything?”

“Good.” I pulled the phone further into the kitchen and sat down on the floor. I filled her in on my job, and Isabel doing my hair and eyebrows; I was surprised at how much had happened since we’d last talked. She told me about signing autographs for three hours, how rich the food was in Europe, and how she’d had to fire yet another assistant for being argumentative, could I believe that.

Finally, I got to the real reason I’d called.

“Mom.”

“Yes?”

“Did you know Mira’s, well . . . a little eccentric?” I whispered, even though she was upstairs.

“What?” My mother was still steamed about the assistant.

“Mira,” I repeated. “She’s not like I remembered her. She’s kind of . . . out there.”

“Oh goodness,” my mother said. “Well, Mira always had that artistic sensibility.”

“It’s more than that,” I said. “People here . . . they’re kind of mean to her.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I knew she’d had some run-ins with the locals. . . .”

“I know about that.”

“Oh.” She paused. I could see her on the other end of the line, biting her lip in thought. “Well, Mira has always been Mira. I never realized it was that serious.”

“I wish we had,” I said. “I just feel so bad . . .”

“Oh, Colie, I am so sorry,” she said, talking over me. “I feel just awful about this trip and leaving you anyway, and now this. . . . Look. I’ll just send Amy, my assistant, home to Charlotte on the next flight. You can take the train back and just stay with her while I finish up this tour.”

“Mom,” I said. “No. Wait.”

But she wasn’t listening, already had her hand cupped over the receiver, while she called to someone in the room. “Look into flights back home, will you. . . .”

“Mom.”

“. . . Today or tomorrow would be best. And tell Amy . . .”

“Mom!”

“. . . that she should pack and call the cleaning service, plus book a train ticket—”

“Mom!”

I had to yell. Once my mother set something in motion, there was no stopping her.

“What!” she yelled back. “Colie, just a second, okay?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to go home. I’m fine here.”

Another pause. I pictured people still scurrying in Spain, planning my instant departure. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I switched the phone to my other ear. “I’m having fun and I like my job. And I think Mira likes having me here. I just feel bad for her. That’s all.”