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Okay, no. Carmen didn’t need to think about that.
But seriously, did her mother think it was okay to just bring a guy back to her apartment—to Carmen’s apartment and—and—
Carmen was mad now. This was not okay.
She put her palm to her head. “You know what, Porter?”
He looked at her doubtfully, check in hand. “What?”
“I think I have a sinus infection.” She could have just said headache, but this sounded more authentic. “I’m thinking I should probably skip the movie tonight.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” He looked disappointed. And for the first time he looked like it might have dawned on him that he was getting jerked around.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was sorry. She didn’t want to be the jerk jerking him around.
“I’ll give you a lift home, then,” he mumbled, standing up.
“I could just walk,” she mumbled back.
“I’m not going to let you walk home if you’re sick,” he said. There was a glint in his eye that challenged her. It conveyed some kind of understanding.
A few minutes later she let herself into the apartment with a self-conscious amount of noise. She considered being quiet, but God knew what she’d see if she didn’t give a little warning. She banged the door shut behind her. She jangled her keys again. She took several strides into the living room and jangled them yet again.
Silence.
They weren’t in the kitchen or the living room. That basically left Christina’s bedroom, the worst of the alternatives. Carmen sucked in her breath and ventured that way, not quite sure what she would do when she got there.
Her heart pounding, she entered the short hallway that led to the bedroom. One step. Two.
She stopped. The door was open, she could see that now. Christina’s bed was just as she’d left it—piled high with rejected date outfits.
“Hello?” Carmen called out in general. Her voice cracked. She sounded pathetic.
There was nobody there. Even though that should have made Carmen happy, it made her sad.
She sat stiffly in the kitchen. She realized after a while that she was still gripping her bag and her keys.
Fear is that little dark room where negatives are developed.
—Michel Pritchard
The kitchen clock had literally stopped. It was broken. That must be it. It hadn’t budged since 12:42. Or … oh, 12:43.
It was way too late to call anybody. Carmen didn’t want to e-mail Paul. She didn’t want to read the bile that would slip from her fingers. If she put it in words and actually typed them out, Paul could take all the time he liked to judge her in that silent way of his. He would probably save it to his hard drive. Maybe he would forward it to his whole address book by mistake.
She had an idea. She would pack up the Pants for Tibby. That was a perfectly wholesome thing to do. She’d been meaning to all day. She would put in the letter and address the package and everything.
She walked, as if in a trance, to her bedroom. She moved piles around aimlessly. She forgot what she was looking for until she remembered. She looked harder. With a certain effort she pulled her mind into the task. The Traveling Pants. The Pants. Sacred. Not okay to lose.
Robotically she dug through her drawers. They were not in her drawers. Nor were they in the very large pile of clothes at the foot of her bed.
Suddenly she pictured them in the kitchen. Yes, she’d carried them into the kitchen earlier that evening. She lumbered back into the kitchen and scanned the small room.
They were not on the counter.
Worry about her mother began to vie with worry about the Pants. She checked the laundry, in case some terrible accident had brought the Pants into forbidden contact with the washing machine. Her bones and muscles seemed to rev up. She checked the bathroom hamper. Pants-worry was officially beginning to edge out mother-worry.
Carmen was dashing hopelessly toward the linen closet when the front door swung open and both worries appeared in its frame.
At the sight of her mother, Carmen stopped with a skid like a cartoon character’s. Her mouth wagged open.
“Hi, sweetheart. What are you doing still up?” Her mother looked shy, not quite up to meeting Carmen just now.
Carmen gasped and sucked air, fishlike. Her lungs were very shallow. She pointed.
“What?” Christina wore her perma-flush. It served both giddiness and shame. At this moment it was shifting from the former to the latter.
Carmen poked her finger in the air, unable to summon words that could possibly convey her indignation.
“Y-you … ! Those … !”
Christina looked deeply uncertain. She still trailed wisps of happiness. Some of her was still in the car with David. She hadn’t yet fully entered the domestic nightmare that was Carmen.
“My pants!” Carmen howled like a beast. “You stole them!”
Christina looked down at the Pants in confusion. “I didn’t steal them. You left them out on the kitchen counter…. I thought—”
“You thought what?” Carmen thundered.
Her mom seemed to shrink. She looked timid now. She gestured at the Pants. She gave Carmen a beseeching look. “I thought maybe you meant them as a …”
Carmen glared at her stonily.
“As a …” Christina looked pained. “As a peace offering, I guess.” She finished quietly.
If Carmen had been kind at all, she would have backed off. This was a tender sort of mistake, potentially sore all around.
“You thought I wanted you to wear the Traveling Pants? You seriously thought that?” Carmen’s temper was growing so big, she herself was afraid of it. “Are you kidding? I put them out to send to Tibby. I would never, never, never—”
“Carmen, enough.” Christina held up her hands. “I understand that. I made a mistake.”
“Take them off now! Now. Now now now!”
Christina turned away. Her cheeks were deep red and her eyes were shiny.
Carmen’s shame deepened.
The sick thing was, Christina looked beautiful in the Pants, slender and young. They fit Christina. They loved her and believed in her just as they’d loved Carmen last summer, when Carmen had been worthy of them. This summer they eluded Carmen. Instead, they chose her mother.
Christina had appeared in the doorway moments before, looking free and happy and optimistic as Carmen had never seen her before. She seemed to glide on a kind of magic that Carmen couldn’t find. And at that moment, Carmen hated her for it.
Christina reached out her hand, but Carmen refused to take it. Christina held her own hand instead. “Darling, I know you’re upset. But … but …” Tears were jiggling in her eyes as she clasped her hands together. “This … relationship with David. It won’t change anything.”
Carmen clenched her jaw. She’d been through the drill. When your parents were about to ruin your life, they used that line.
Her mother might mean what she said. She might even believe it was true. But it wasn’t. It would change everything. It already had.
Tib,
You are not worse than me. I am worse than you. Trust me. We can fight about it more later when you’re home.
Here are the Pants. They are technically supposed to go to Lena, but we both had the idea that they would make a great date to your movie premiere. Just give them to Lena after you knock ’em dead, Tibba-dee.
With love from your friend who no longer deserves happiness or nice things,
Carmen
Before walking over to Greta’s, Bridget studied herself in the mirror above the bureau. It was kind of a relief not to have to see more than her face, really. She leaned in and inspected the top of her head. There was a solid inch of roots grown in, and they didn’t match. Even the dyed parts were fading in patches, giving her hair a weird, skunky look.
She wasn’t so crazy about the brown anymore, but she didn’t want to risk blowing her cover, either, so she dug a baseball cap out from a pile of dirty clothes and put it on her head. Voilà. As a fashion statement, it wasn’t much. Forgive me, Carmen, she thought, heading out the door.
The attic was starting to take shape now. Bridget had waded through and organized vast loads of books, co
ats, and magazines and moved everything but the last two of Marly’s boxes down to the basement. Now that most of the clutter was gone, she could get a sense of the room itself. It was a classic old-fashioned garret, cramped and sloping, but romantic, too. The ceiling was high in the middle and slanted down to around four feet at the windows. But there were many windows, three on each of the four sides, and they seemed to catch the loveliest light.
It badly needed a paint job, Bridget decided, looking around.
For now, she decided to confront another of Marly’s boxes. This, as she had suspected, was where her father came into the picture. There were two papers Marly had written for his class (an A- and a B+. “Fantastic ideas—need to follow through,” he’d written on the second). There were many pictures of her with her friends being an adorable and jolly coed. There were no pictures of her in her bed. There were no pictures of her at Shepherd’s Hill.
Then there were the wedding pictures, most of them taken on the steps of the Baptist church in town. Bridget studied them carefully, wondering about the furtive quality they had. Her father looked dazed with love, but he tended to hover at the edges of the pictures, his posture stiff. His family wasn’t there. He had no colleagues or friends, from what Bridget could determine. It was a wedding, all right, but it wasn’t the wedding she would have expected from famous Marly Randolph, a girl who could have been Miss Alabama if she’d wanted to.
Bridget was fairly certain her mother hadn’t been pregnant at the time, and yet she’d brought shame upon her groom nonetheless. She’d brought him down in the world. Her father had sacrificed everything to marry her, and Bridget wondered if Marly had disrespected him for it. Maybe Professor Vreeland had been a prize for only as long as she couldn’t have him.
At the bottom of this box was the wedding dress. Bridget pulled it out, feeling extra gallons of blood pulsing though her head and her heart. It was so crumpled and faded it was hard to believe it had ever been beautiful. Bridget held it up to her face. Was there any smell of her mother left in it?
