Diary of a Heretic

The Third Degree

Matthew King had won three Emmys playing a psychiatric pediatric intern who figured out kids’ secret, disabling torments and what to do about them. The show “Children’s Minds” was still number one in reruns.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

If his agent, in fact if anyone saw him stretched beneath Brooke’s gaze, or suspected a fraction of how infatuated he was by this well-adjusted wild child, he’d be in trouble.

Presumably, nobody saw him touch Brooke’s cheek and deliberately not lower her face to his. Or saw her counter-move thwarted when she bent down, nose to nose, and the hat fell off. Without that hat, they might still be kissing.

You fool yourself as long as you can and when you need to stop, you stop—but as soon as possible you return to fooling yourself again. And thus, Matthew managed to slide free, turn around, and upright. He kneeled and Brooke in turn kneeled several feet away.

Furiously aroused—now, when they weren’t touching or even looking, Matthew King sat on his heels and using both hands covered his erection, which was obvious despite hot, heavy blue jeans. “Brooke, it was stupid of me. Thinking I could be alone with you.”

“Really,” she scoffed. “Since when does not kissing me constitute sex with a minor?” Brooke discovered she had lost all fear. The first several times Matthew had turned her away, she worried that he disliked her after looking closely. But this time she had seen his face and felt his touch: he wanted to kiss her more than anything.

Which was precisely why Matthew was about to insist she return to the house. But first she held the hat beside her mouth and flipped it back and forth between words. “Can I ask you something?”

So cute, he had to laugh. “Sure. You can even ask me something without asking if you can ask first.”

“Why did Sasha run off to Argentina? Did you do something so awful to her that she had no choice but to abandon her kids?”

“Like what?” Matthew, too, had lost his fear. Standing up, he tilted his head toward the waterfall. “Come on.”

She ran ahead and set the hat on a safe, distant rock. He noticed her skirt beneath it, as she emerged from the waterfall and dove, a scarlet arc floating in front of the waterfall. When her head sprang to the surface, she gasped. “Jump in. It’s freezing.”

Freezing sounded good. Freezing sounded perfect. So Matthew peeled off his shirt, climbed the ledge, and dove like a swan in full-length blue jeans. He shot up, yelling, it was freezing!, and she pulled him behind the rushing water, where it grew quiet. Still, she beckoned him to bring his ear to her mouth, indicating she could not shout. In fact, she whispered. “Did you murder Sasha?”

The water was too cold to linger. He climbed out, laughing. No, he didn’t murder his wife. Sasha had become a hopeless, that is, vicious, cocaine addict. He was preparing to take custody of the kids when she and her dealer disappeared in Argentina.

Brooke found a sandbar and dug up huge clay clumps. Smearing it on her arms and neck and chest, she said, “People come on pilgrimages for this miraculous mud.”

Matthew must have drifted beside her. Because she didn’t reach, but just slathered a slippery handful from his temple, along his jaw, and across his collar bone. “Here’s another rule,” he said. “No smearing mud on each other.”

“Whatever you say, Matthew King.”

“Then let’s hurry. It’s not fair to Tara.”

Clean and shivering cold, they walked fast. Brooke held her hat and shook out her hair. “Glad I got the chlorine out. Oh and feel free to ask Tara whatever you want about me. She’ll tell you I’m not so bad.”

“I know you’re not bad, Brooke.”

Taking the hat in one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her head and traced her ear. His arm stayed there while she looked up at him, her expression mixing happy with sad. “If I happened to like it when you do this, like really, seriously like it, does that make it illegal?”

“Brooke, please. We haven’t even gotten through day two.”

“Maybe you should call your grown-up girlfriend. You gotta have someone within driving distance, right?”

“I do. One and then another I haven’t gotten around to yet.”

“So call.”

“I would, Brooke. But they’re boring. I’m talking really, truly, unbelievably boring.”

(To Be Continued)

Forget Me Nots

While Tara grinned at Matthew, recalling his movie dialogue, he observed that she was slightly bigger than Brooke with brown hair that was probably very blonde until recently. Her blue eyes were startling and her features more refined. In giddy innocence, she told Matthew King she knew all his lines by heart. And he believed her.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

He held her gaze until his assessment felt certain. Tara was thrilled by romance on the screen. A skillful presentation fulfilled her. Brooke, however, demanded real-life passion. Her avidness was extreme even for someone too young to have learned caution.

Matthew King wanted to please and impress both girls. And he truly believed he had acquired the insight and control to keep his balance.

At thirty-four, Matthew King no longer needed to suffer much of the movie industry’s high-flying social life. That’s why he—and Sasha until she left—had preferred the Catskills to the Hamptons or wherever was that year’s “place to be.”

Planning his summer from L.A., Matthew had invited a dancer to visit him next week. But after watching Brooke ride up on her bicycle, throw it on the ground, and ring the doorbell, he had phoned Allegra, regarding a change in plans. He’d see her the weekend he saw Peter Morgan and company about playing the next James Bond. And if Allegra was free later that summer, perhaps they could meet after he read Jennifer Haley’s new play.

Other than that, he intended to stay in the Catskills. He imagined Tara babysitting Dexter and Ivy, as well as giving him an outsider’s opinions.

And he envisioned dallying with Brooke in the meadow. They would hike in the woods and dive from the waterfall. Relying on self-control and genuine sweetness, he hoped to love Brooke—of course within legal limits. And without hurting her; or at least not much.

Earlier today, when Brooke and his kids swam in the turquoise pool, Matthew had congratulated his son’s progress. And from the deck chair, he had studied Brooke in her sleek red bathing suit, submerged to her waist. That was when unsteadiness seized them both. Matthew saw how risky it was, what he hoped to do with her. She sank into the water, splashing, and he registered her anxiety, which she generally kept hidden.

After swimming, the children ran around before drying off, because Brooke and Matthew were preoccupied with not looking at each other. Yet Matthew moved close enough to see the droplets traversing Brooke’s body. When he lowered his eyes, they were both conscious of her wet hair and soft breath. That’s when Brooke had phoned Tara, slipped a little red skirt over her bathing suit, and put on the straw hat.

And once Tara arrived, the urgency dispersed. A woman named Francine served the children sandwiches for lunch, and salads topped with grilled salmon for Matthew, Brooke, and Tara. In the background, Anden and two other men with earpieces roamed the area.

While Ivy napped, Matthew wondered if Tara would play with Dexter. He and Brooke would hike to the waterfall. “That is,” he said, “if nobody minds.”

Nobody did. Tara promised to teach Dexter secret tricks to his favorite video game. And soon Brooke and Matthew were walking side by side, arms swinging. Until Matthew slowed and whispered in Brooke’s ear, as if he needed to whisper. “Let’s sit in the meadow.”

He sat, his blue jean covered knees bent and bare ankles crossed. “Guess what I want more than anything in the world.”

“What?”

He wanted (more than anything) to hold her bare feet in his lap. So she slipped off her canvas shoes. Her feet smelled like chlorine from the pool and he said he liked that.

She plucked a green stem from the field and Matthew lifted one foot and then the other, kissing each arch. Brooke prepared to lie back but Matthew waved his fingers, indicating they should trade places.He laid his head, face up, in her skirt-covered lap. And she combed his longish curls with her fingers as if she often did, as if this weren’t the first time.

“Don’t answer if I’m being rude, but are you, um...are you heartbroken over Sasha?”

Amused, he raised his chin. “Heartbroken, me? No. I worry about Dexter and Ivy but they’ve stopped asking about her.”

Saying this, he touched Brooke’s face, which was brimmed by the hat. All he wanted in all the world was to kiss her upside down. But he didn’t.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Le Chapeau d'Été

Brooke had phoned Tara before noon and said, “Come right now. I’ll meet you at the turn-off.”

The path between Matthew King’s property and the highway was half a mile long and wide enough for both bicycles. Tara could scarcely believe Matthew King had hired her to babysit too.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

She wanted the job. She wanted to meet Matthew King, whose movies she knew by heart. But as they bicycled toward the farmhouse, she had to ask Brooke: “Is it an emergency?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Brooke had thought she was being nice. “I was trying to do you a favor.” She smiled at Tara from beneath a straw hat banded with wide blue ribbon. Protection from the sun, no argument. But Tara noticed that Brooke’s smooth face—no freckles like Tara’s—looked especially luminous when shadowed by the stiff white brim.

“Where’d you get the hat? It makes you look like the girl in Marié Deux Fois.”

“What’s that?”

“His latest movie. Set in Paris. Nest-ce pas, ma cherie? His character marries the same woman twice. It’s the same women but they use two actresses. The movie’s heavy on atmosphere. And hallucinatory scenes. So when he marries his wife again, she’s younger than when he first married her. And she wears a hat just like that.”

“Maybe it’s the same hat,” Brooke said as a breeze lifted the ribbons trailing down her dark hair. “The kids and I were making lemonade when he brought it out of his office, and said, ‘Let’s see what this looks like on you.’”

Tara said, “Well, you look like the young version of his wife, who he marries at the end. At first, his wife, played by the older actress, has an affair with his friend. She goes back and forth until Matthew King divorces her. But when the other guy dies, she’s transformed by grief…and it seems by the hat.”

“I can’t believe he made a movie like that,” Brooke said.

“The whole thing was supposed to make emotional sense, not logical. It’s funny and cute but went straight to DVD.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of it,” Brooke said.

“Came out last year: Marié Deux Fois.”

“He told me he hadn’t been in a movie for five years.”

“Then maybe he only counts the ones in multiplexes. This was an indie film.”

“When did you become such an expert, Tara?”

“Haven’t you noticed I watch movies all the time? Straight to DVD aren’t always the best, but your chances are better. Guess he liked you in the hat.”

“He said I could keep it.”

Brooke stopped her bike. Tara too. They could see Matthew on the lower deck sitting among the toys. Dexter and Ivy were playing separately. Tara glanced at Brooke and watched her sister’s color heighten. Brooke’s crush on Matthew King exaggerated the red of her always slightly pouting mouth.

“F-fu-oo-boy,” Tara said, watching her sister gleam. “Be honest and I won’t tell anyone. You had him hire me so I can run interference whenever things get sticky between you. And—we all watch the kids.”

Brooke checked the bike path behind them before shifting her weight. Leaning close to Tara, she dropped her chin. “Sasha’s probably not coming back from Argentina. Which means he gets the children. He doesn’t know why she’s there, really, She’s been gone for months without a word.”

Tara held both handle bars. “Don’t get mad, Brooke. I’m grateful you got him to hire me. But why are you fooling around with Matthew King at all? I mean, if you think that high-school guy used you…”

“This is nothing like that. It’s Matthew King. And it’s just this summer. I’m legally under-age. So if he kisses my forehead, where’s the harm?”

Tara shook her head. “You should make him treat you like any other employee.”

But Tara knew Brooke was unable to do that. Maybe next year when Tara was sixteen, she’d start seeking ravishment at any cost. But probably not. Brooke had always been sexy, even at six. While Tara was never like that. She was very pretty and liked the way she looked. But if she ever went boy-crazy like Brooke she would hate it. She would hate being like that.

Matthew King was waving at them. When Brooke introduced Tara to him, she grinned directly at him as long and wide as she wanted because nothing about her grin was at all suggestive. She drawled, “‘Forget the smalls. We’re going for the one and only.’”

“Pipeline.” Matthew King laughed. “That was more fun than all the others put together.”

(Click here for the next episode)

Better to Die than Try

After Brooke’s unspoken, stifling, six-month love affair with the senior from Boiceville (whose name shall never be mentioned), she regarded sex as the ultimate danger. Other risks only went so far and then you died. (She was still blithe about death because it hadn’t affected her yet.)

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

 But sex? If it rose inside you, demanding abandon, and if you were a sixteen-year-old girl, you needed to act the opposite of how you felt. You needed to act like you never wanted anything or anyone or people would call you a slut. And that’s if they were being nice. She knew that much. What she didn’t know was how to hide every tell-tale sign. And she didn’t know which for her was worse: wanting some guy or wanting him to want her.

Of course, both were despicable if you got caught trying: Better to die than try.

So before she arrived at Matthew King’s, before that first day babysitting, she repeated what Tara had told her last summer after he had stood her up: People do whatever they want.

But when she arrived on her bicycle, Matthew ran up and smiled. She practically heard him thinking, No hug; no touching at all. He stammered and apologized about leaving last year without a word, something about an invasion of handlers and no way to contact her.

He asked about her boyfriend so slyly, she wondered if someone had told him. “How old are you now, eighteen?”

Brooke almost laughed; he was so obvious, so totally not cool. Of course, a movie star not acting cool was the coolest.“Sixteen,” she said. “Seventeen on Halloween.”

“Seventeen on Halloween—remind me to be careful, okay?”

“Why? I’m easily resisted.” Brooke’s hand lifted and even in the humid air static electricity shot from her fingertips. “A nice provincial kid. That’s why you and Sasha hired me.”

On a swing Matthew circled around, twisting the chains. His kids were playing in the sand with action figures. “Brooke, not even last year were you easily resisted or provincial. There’s a compelling energy about you, whether you’re a kid or not.”

“Tell me about your movies.”

“I’m in a real quandary, looking for the right project.” Matthew King was a rakish, good guy-type. “A leading man,” he said, “not a side-kick.” No way was he going to end up like those old actors in romantic comedies with actresses half their age. So no more romantic comedies.

An Asian man wearing a Bluetooth device emerged from the house and called Dexter and Ivy inside. Matthew nodded at him, “Half an hour, Anden.” The sun overhead, Matthew and Brooke began walking around the compound, because he hadn’t even wandered around the place yet.

“I lost out on two roles I would have been perfect for.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

Much later than “half an hour,” after discussing different films, made and not yet made, they entered the meadow. Before heading toward the house, though, his arm swooped across her head and his fingers traced the rim of her ear. Last year that maneuver had made her feel safe. This summer it brought safety to mind but also a plummeting sensation in her stomach. He stroked her hair, not casually, almost roughly. And Brooke hopped away, against the impulse toward him.

From then until his kids fell asleep, Brooke flowed fast, herself and everything else rushing before her eyes.

The next morning, Matthew King retreated to his office right after Brooke arrived. Before lunch she and the children changed into bathing suits. She had earned Red Cross certification that spring. Ivy bobbed around in floaties but Dexter swam underwater the width of the pool, and wanted his father to see him do it. Dangling his feet in the water, Matthew told Dexter, “That a boy. Way to go, Dex.” Brooke sank back in the water and stood up several feet away from him. Her hand shaded her eyes when she asked what he thought about hiring her sister Tara to babysit too. “Can’t have too many eyes on the kids. In the pool or out.”

“Sure. Bring her tomorrow.”

Brooke said, “I’ll bet she’s free now.” Out of the pool, a towel wrapped at her waist like a sarong, she scrolled Tara’s number.

(Click here to read the next episode)

Double the Fun

In the gallery’s workroom Tara was stringing metallic beads for a complicated necklace her mother had designed and wondering if Brooke ever realized how connected they were. Not just as sisters. But in how Brooke’s reckless persona made Tara appear sensible and calm.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Brooke took wild risks, got smacked around, and criticized. Book-smarts saved her from being entirely written off. But thanks to Brooke, Tara watched from the wings, safe from the line of fire.

They protected each other—their parents being too self-absorbed and dull-witted to bother. Nobody but Brooke realized that Tara wasn’t so much calm and quiet as muted and shy. True, Tara didn’t get carried away like Brooke. She was stubborn and cynical and didn’t dare go flying off like Brooke.

Selecting larger, beveled beads for the center, Tara flicked on another halogen lamp. Truth was, though, Tara was way more star struck than her sister. She had memorized Matthew King’s movies, even the really lame ones like “One Size Fits All.”

She shifted her weight on the stool, because her butt and legs were sticking to it even though the day’s heat had barely kicked in. Settling down again, the phone pressing hard in her front pocket buzzed.

Brooke said, “Hey, Tara.”

Tara bitched about being stuck in the gallery workroom and stopped. A pause so long she wondered if Brooke was still there. And then Brooke was saying out loud the words Tara, for weeks, had fixed one after another to the brightest beads sliding down silk string. Matthew King wanted them both to babysit.

“Wait. Really?”

“Dexter and Ivy don’t play the same games anymore. And Matthew doesn’t want them getting bored, especially since his wife’s away. Can you come now? Ride your bike.”

An hour ago their mother was minding the store but now an old guy named Chase with a bleached pony-tail to his waist was working in front. He sold stuff well, remembering customers’ names and figuring out their preferences. But he was incapable of telling Connie where Tara had gone. No matter how well Tara explained it to him, Chase seemed to go blank. And Connie didn’t carry a cell because she still believed they caused cancer more than just being alive seemed to. So Tara left a note.

Last night after her first long day at Matthew King’s, Brooke had come home saying, Matthew this and Matthew that, her voice soaring and dropping, on and on.

Today, at the farmhouse path, she was waiting for Tara, her long legs straddling her bike. A straw hat covered her head, two fat blue ribbons flowing above her dark hair down her back. Again her voice swooped and rolled and her face gave off an exalted quality that made Tara smile and wonder. And also sting with jealousy.

“What?” Tara asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Except Brooke relayed such heightened excitement that Tara asked, “Are you high?”

“What?”

“Are you on drugs?”

They had been riding side by side on the narrow path and Brooke stopped, almost falling off her bike. “Don’t ever ask that, Tara. It’s malicious. I never do drugs. Nobody here does.”

“Sorry.”

Rolling in sync again, Tara finally began to understand what Brooke was blathering about. “Matthew’s not doing another comic romance. Or an extravaganza that might bomb. He’s waiting for the right project. But even if something happened yesterday he’s still five years out of play.”

Tara said, “So you’re babysitting him and I’m babysitting the kids.”

“Don’t be like that. He’s gotta talk one-to-one with someone real. Nobody deals with him straight, not even his wife. It’s all power trips. So it’ll be good for him being around me and you. With adults and teenagers, age is the only differential. Not money or talent. Not who and what’s the next big thing.”

“You mean he never wanted to be in the movies? Who knew there were stakes?”

“Tara, if you’re not gonna be nice you better go back and string beads.”

“I’ll be nice. But it might help to stop acting like you’re stuck in an X-box.”

“You and me don’t know what it’s like, do we? Come on. Leave the bikes here.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Fantasyland

Brooke hated that Tara had called out her ex-boyfriend in front of his friends. Because Brooke was the senior boy’s secret. And especially because, Brooke tried to explain, he had used her. Gotten bored and forgotten her. Or pretended to. So when Tara rose to his bait, the pathetic−but over and done−situation only got sorrier. “Figure it out, Tara; now everybody knows.”

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Tara apologized and begged for details, which Brooke was anxious to unload. So Tara had crawled beside Brooke on the floor, the TV casting its blue glow on the ceiling, and the sisters whispered to each other all night.

Tara learned: How Brooke had lingered on steps and strolled past his parked car. How in his presence she remained motionless and alert. Because maybe he’d nod her way. And if so, Brooke followed, burning with adrenaline and suspense.

When he was in the right mood and found the right place, where intrusion was unlikely, he held Brooke and kissed her until it seemed she was dreaming. And just the fact that he sometimes felt like bestowing such loving gestures on her was enough to keep Brooke enthralled. It had seemed marvelous how in sync they were. They both smiled and Brooke would take off her clothes, lie down, sit up, put her mouth on him, whatever he wished.

Until last week when he had sneered at Matthew King−that broke the spell.

Tara knew all that. The corollary was plain: How Brooke still fantasized about him night and day. And that even though he strutted around, his regular girlfriend Miriam draped all over him, she prayed that he would peel Miriam off, shove her away, and nod at Brooke. Everything the same as before.

Not likely now, however, since Tara had announced after an assembly that her sister wasn’t cold; the guy must have a problem, warming up.

Tara said, “He was talking shit about you, Brooke. And you said he was afraid to be seen with you. Where’s your pride?”

“Napping.”

“Well, wake it up. Playing the masochist is all-wrong for you, Brooke. Besides, it’s habit-forming.”

“Habit-forming, ha ha. Good one, Tara.” Brooke drifted outside to ride her bicycle before sunset.

Lately, she rode uphill, up Mountain Road, past the monastery, and onto mountain bike trails. She rode her ordinary bike furiously until, even with patches of snow still on the ground, sweat trickled all over her body.

Her point of exhaustion was never far from the remnants of an Indian sweat lodge.

Brooke had been crawling inside the dome of sticks since she was little. But the historical society had just this year figured out what the sticks were: the structure of an Indian sweat lodge. Marked with tape, it was supposed to be untouchable. Brooke didn’t touch it. She just sat quietly in her childhood place.

After she stopped sweating and her coordination and balance returned, she hopped back on her bicycle and sped downhill so fast she couldn’t see; the trees, ground, and sky blurred into shifting colors.

Form and shape fell away.

In the all-encompassing rush, Brooke was not some sad little waif asking to be mistreated, but speed itself. Unstoppable, even lethal. Surviving her daredevil feat validated her.

Still strong and confident, she locked her bicycle for the night and burst into the kitchen ready to forgive Tara and revel in the moment.

Tara was on the home phone. “Here she is; she just got home. Please ask the Kings to keep me in mind.”

She handed Brooke the phone, saying, “It’s Matthew King’s planning guy. They want you to babysit in July and August.”

Phone in hand, Brooke circled the room, head tilted. Eight am till the kids’ were asleep? No problem. The planning guy explained that the childrens’ mother was in Argentina. Matthew, however, was between projects. He was looking forward to a working vacation. Was Brooke available seven days a week? Yes, she definitely was; she’d enjoy it. “Thanks.”

She spun around the room. What luck!

Not until they were making spaghetti for dinner did she recall Tara saying, “Keep me in mind.”

“For what?” she asked, squeezing a lemon half. “To steal my job?”

“No,” Tara said. “Only if you’re tired of it by next summer.”

“I won’t be.”

“Three summers straight, Brooke?”

Tara didn’t bother warning her against last summer’s fantasyland. That was a given.

Brooke nodded and stepped an inch from Tara’s face. “One day, Tara, something or someone’s gonna get you swinging on the high trapeze−no net. And if not? If you’re always so solid, straight up and sensible? Well, then I feel sorry for you.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

No Cold Fish

Brooke and their mother Connie overheard Tara on the phone. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Pop. Come over if you want. But you won’t change my mind.”

“About what?” Connie asked when Tara hung up.

“About God. He can’t force me into church.”

Brooke said, “See ya.” She wasn’t hanging around for this.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Connie knew, however, that she better hang around, and called a friend to work at the Trinity Gallery, which sold arts and crafts made by local artists and crafters.

When Jim, who legally was still her husband, drove over from New Paltz, Connie kissed his cheek and offered him a beer. And she warned him, “Tara’s not a child. Don’t lose your head.”

“She needs to listen to me. That’s all—listen.”

So Tara sat at the kitchen table and listened to her father, who lived forty miles away and didn’t have girlfriends.

“Women friends—big difference. The big thing in our faith, Tara, is that your mother and I aren’t divorced. God forgives the rest.”

“That’s what you believe. Not me. If you can’t accept that, I have nothing to say.”

Jim was in mid-sentence, countering Tara’s assertion when she walked out.

Connie set a platter of cheese and apple slices on the table. “When Tara announces that she has nothing more to say, it  means she’s not going to talk to you unless you respect her choice.”

Jim shook his head. “Another beer?”

“One for you and one for me.”

Together they recalled Brooke’s religious crisis last year. Brooke being Brooke had lots to say—about her father’s delusion, the church’s enshrined hypocrisy, and so on. Until Jim had lost his temper and smacked the left side of her head. For which he apologized.

Neither Brooke nor Connie intended to tell him about the bruises. So Tara had emailed him: “No hospital, of course. So who knows about concussion? But Brooke had been hearing a terrible ringing in her ear for two days.”

Alarmed and ashamed, Jim phoned and then immediately drove over there. Her headphones on, Brooke was dancing around in her nightgown. Her black eye made him feel like a monster. Not to worry, she said, and accompanied him that same week to Sunday Mass. Afterward however, she had asked the priest such embarrassing questions that Jim decided Christmas and Easter would suffice.

But now level-headed Tara was insisting even that equaled oppression.

“Girls will break their father’s heart,” Jim said.

“You don’t have a heart to break.” Connie’s patience, derived through meditation, was spent.

Jim stood up, walked out, and drove away.

Thereafter, he sent the girls’ money, as required by law, and phoned his wife occasionally. His daughters didn’t miss him. Not a bit.

Brooke spent her sophomore year dating a conceited senior boy, who refused to acknowledge her in public. He invited her to watch DVDs and ride in his car so long as nobody else knew. So Brooke loved him in secret. Really in secret: Nothing turned him off, he said, like a girl in heat. Struggling to prove she wasn’t that, she tried to hide her physical excitement.

When winter turned to spring, he rented “Palimony.” Brooke didn’t say it used to be her favorite movie. Just before the credits rolled, her boyfriend said, “Christ, that Matthew King’s a real jag-off.”

Brooke said she wanted to go home. He wanted to chill. So Brooke walked home. After which, the boyfriend acted as if he had no idea who she was. Brooke tried once to text him and found proof that he knew her well enough to block her name and number..

One evening when their mother was meditating with her jewelry group, Tara said she stood behind  Brooke’s ex-boyfriend after an assembly. “When he turned his head and noticed me, he told his friends, louder than he needed to, ‘You know that girl Brooke Logan? She’s a cold fish.’”

“Why tell me that, Tara? You think I’m not sorry enough?”

“Brooke, I told him you might be a lot of things but you are not—like so totally not—a cold fish. The problem was him.”

Brooke stared at Tara, not caring about tears, and said, “Don’t talk about me. Don’t ever.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Never No More

Tara considered wearing a few little braids by her face. Jazz up her colorless hair that refused to grow long. But if she got into that—how she looked—she’d miss the bus.

 Halfway down the stairs, she heard Brooke singing in the kitchen, “Never no more will I cry for him…” Their father liked Patsy Cline. Brooke, however, couldn’t sing. Really. She could not sing at all.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

After practically dying last night from drinking half a bottle of whisky, she was wearing a red t-shirt with the slogan: Take What You Get. Brooke had great hair, a glossy dark-brown cascade past her shoulders. And this when she’d slept with it wet, no less.

“I’m making pancakes,” she giggled. “To thank you. But also,” she put down the mixing bowl and laughed long enough that Tara stared at her, waiting. “I mean—pancakes. Who— ” She laughed again and had to force out her words, squeaking, “invented them?”

One…two…Tara turned around and Brooke’s eyes widened, her face drained, and she dashed to the sink, retching. But her insides were totally empty, thank God.

“You’re still drunk, Brooke. Better stay home,” Tara called as she closed the door.

Their dad sometimes woke up drunk, too, all fun-loving and fond of his girls. After an hour, however, he’d turn mean and crawl back to bed, cursing them. He lived in New Paltz, which was bigger and had a state university that employed him with fix-it jobs—his work at the bar being erratic. She couldn’t remember her parents living together but they got along fine when necessary.

Tara’s school district included five Catskill towns so her freshman class had two hundred kids. Tara, however, was in honors classes, which meant sitting for four more years with the same ten kids as in middle school.

The day started with Advanced History. The teacher was horrible. He reminded her of her father. They didn’t look alike; her father nose’s wasn’t hooked; his back wasn’t stooped. But they both spoke as if whatever they said capped a long-running and furious argument nobody else heard. With every other phrase Mr. Schinkle vanquished an invisible evil opponent.

Hearing the victory that was Mr. Schinkle’s alone as he passed out their schedule, “Complete each assignment as indicated,” unleashed a long-running, belligerent argument of her own. Age old, really, even universal, but Tara’s conflict was personal, between her and her father. His Catholic ideology belonged to another era. Even her mother admitted their father was “a religious bully.”

Tara and Brooke had talked about it after that awful Easter vigil he had subjected them to. Brooke didn’t really mind one way or another. But Tara did mind.

She should have announced, “Never, no more,” at Easter. But starting high school and hearing the horrible history teacher made it urgent. Mr. Schinkle’s every utterance triumphed over rampant but imperceptible threats. Within a few minutes the pounding sound of such authority was forcing her to fight for each breath. At fourteen, Tara had a right to live according to her own mind. And not her father’s doctrine. Or his priest.

So certain was she of her inherent right that Tara phoned him at lunch. “Hey, Pop, is this a good time to talk?”

“I have a few minutes.”

“It won’t take long but I’ve searched my conscience and thought about it and even prayed that my mind would change. But it won’t. I don’t believe in God.”

“Well God damn you then. You freakin’ little bitch.”

Tara rolled her eyes at the September sky. (Good retort, Pops.)

“Tara,” her father’s voice shifted from bark to plea. She knew this would hurt him but what could she do? He’d get over it. “You and I need to discuss this.”

“No, Pop. Case closed. There’s enough fronting already.”

“Fronting? What’s that, hip-hop?”

“It’s what people say about misrepresenting themselves.”

“Do they? Well, we’ll see how high and mighty you are on Saturday. I’ll drive over about noon. And you better be there, Tara.”

“You can’t change my mind, Pop. I don’t believe in God.” Closing the phone, she whispered, “Never, no more.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

The Reason for Everything

Unaware of it, Tara gloated when Brooke staggered home only forty minutes after she left. The back door slammed off the kitchen wall. Tara was upstairs watching a documentary about a boy who videotaped his truly embarrassing parents.

[Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

Their house was rickety but Brooke was causing a ruckus. So that while little Chester on TV told his bickering parents, “You guys are golden,” Tara visualized Brooke opening and closing the refrigerator and crashing into furniture.

Then Brooke tromped upstairs and stalked noisily in Tara’s vicinity before falling into a stuffed chair. Her face was wet and streaked with dirt and her long sleek hair was one huge tangle. She expelled breath toward the ceiling and tugged her turquoise top, twisting the loose material into her fists. “So did anybody call while I was gone?”

“Call?” Tara stifled out right laughter and snorted. “Like who?”

“Well,” Brooke was up now and pacing, “did anybody stop by? Ring the doorbell? Was there a message for me?”

“The movie star stood you up, huh?”

“Stood…me…up.” Brooke hiccupped between the words and sat on the floor. “Yep. He did. Stand me up.”

Tara stopped watching TV to watch Brooke who was hiccupping and swiping at tears. It wasn’t funny anymore. “That’s too bad, Brooke. But it’s one night. One thing. I mean, come on. Calm down.”

Curled on the carpet, she stared at her marching fingers. “How am I gonna make it through a whole night?”

“Um, you know what? I’ve got some whiskey. Stole it from Dad.” Their father worked in a bar forty miles away. Last Sunday, Tara was supposed to wait in the car while their dad popped inside before hours.

Brooke was still on the floor, hiccupping. She rocked on her spine—until Tara grabbed her elbow. “Get a grip. Jeez, Brooke. You’re such a baby.”

She brought the bottle of Maker’s Mark from her bedroom, expecting Brooke to take a sip and settle down and watch TV with her. But Brooke gulped down a lot. She swung her legs in front of her and stood up, no more hiccups. “Okay if I take this to bed with me, Tara?”

It didn’t occur to Tara to say no.

Hours later, just before Tara was ready to go to bed, Brooke stumbled into the living room, stinking of vomit. She said, “I can’t walk, Tara,” except she couldn’t exactly talk either.

“Shit,” Tara said. “You’re shit-faced.” Brooke dropped into the couch, unconscious. Tara knew that when someone was shit-faced you shoved them into a cold shower.

But it wasn’t easy. She had to get in the shower with Brooke and shampoo her stinking hair and soap her smelly body.

Tara took care of the whole horrible mess. Got Brooke showered, dried, and back to bed—except it was Tara’s bed. Brooke’s sheets needed washing. Tara stuffed Brooke’s clothes in the washing machine and cleaned her room. Afraid all the while she would puke too—from the smell—she wiped up the puddle on the bathroom floor. She even washed the towels and ran the dryer.

Finally, she took another shower. And burned incense, which her mother used for meditating. That’s where their mother was now. Every other week she meditated all night with her jewelry-making group.

In four hours Tara and Brooke would be getting ready for high school and Brooke would pretend she didn’t know Tara. For three years Brooke would ignore Tara in public because she was a year older and a year cooler.

Now, however, Brooke loomed in Tara’s face, shaking her awake, where she’d fallen asleep watching TV. “I’m really sorry, Tara. And really, thank you. I mean for everything. ’Cause getting drunk like that helped. I’d never have made it through this without you.”

Yawning, Tara stretched her arms. “Did you have sex with him or something?”

“Nothing like that. I was just shocked that he would leave me hanging like that. I thought he liked me.”

“But you know people do that all the time. Men especially.”

“For no reason?” Brooke asked.

“Of course for no reason.”

“I think he was scared of me. Like, I’d ruin his reputation.”

“Brooke, please. He did it because he wanted to—everybody’s reason for everything.”

(Click here to read the next episode)

Nobody Anywhere

Brooke rode her bicycle along this path every day, including weekends. Already after seven, the evening had started changing from gold to silver. Bright flecks glinted off random pebbles when she peddled fast. But it was still warm enough for no sleeves.

[Click here to read the first episode.]

Matthew had invited Brooke to watch “Palimony,” her favorite movie and his first hit. His wife Sasha and her assistant had taken Dexter and Ivy home to California yesterday but Matthew needed another day to finish stuff.

So anytime after dinner, why didn’t she drop by? They’d watch him in high def get custody of the girl even though he wasn’t officially married to the mother, who had absconded to Thailand without telling anyone.

“We’ll boo the bad guys. Eat some popcorn. And say good-bye.”

They couldn’t say good-bye on the phone. Brooke didn’t even have his number. An assistant arranged his personal contacts, and his wife’s assistant managed anything involving the children. If Brooke tried to text him even “C U” some sleazezoid might cook up a disgusting rumor. No shit; it happened.

For instance, even Tara at dinner had implied some weirdness. Claiming men teased Brooke.

Generally, Matthew ate lunch with his kids. After which, he and Brooke took them “hiking” through the fields. They tromped through the woods and threw stones at the waterfall. Later, either he read Ivy a naptime story and Brooke played Guitar Rock with Dexter or vice versa.

Brooke liked hearing his “war stories.” About how two-faced people were. Real life was like high school cubed−that’s why you went to high school. Naturally, Brooke excelled; he couldn’t believe how sophisticated she was. He kind of whistled under his breath. And regaled her with how ridiculous he had been growing up in Arizona. The dumb shit he did back then cracked them up.

Brooke cut through the monastery to the farm’s entry lane, wondering if they’d watch “Palimony” in the kids’ wing or downstairs or maybe in his office, which was secluded in the woods.

One day when Sasha and the kids were at her designer’s kid’s birthday party and the assistant forgot to change Brooke’s hours, he showed her his office. It had a little kitchen, a personal gym, tons of fascinating artifacts.

He played her his first gig, a music video where he was in the background for two seconds—doing a behind-the-back pool shot that sank all the balls. “Fake, of course.” He showed her nature photographs he took for fun. And a big framed one that a famous Dutch woman had taken of an awkward girl in a yellow-green bathing suit.

“Remind you of something?”

“An eleven-year-old standing on an empty beach.”

“You know who Aphrodite is?” Matthew Googled the painting of Aphrodite standing on a seashell. “Now, look how the girl’s standing.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “And see the sky? The clouds mimic the shell.”

She stepped back, taking it in and he wrapped an arm around her head to touch her ear. This made her feel safer than anything. But he said, “Better send you home.” So, a paid day off.

A little farther on her bike and she could see the house was closed up. She rang the doorbell and knocked. All last week they’d talked about watching “Palimony” after his family left. She ran to the back door, calling, “Anybody home?”

It was getting darker but she didn’t mind that. She rode her bike at night all the time. The farmhouse being deserted was what freaked her out. She started yelling, “Matthew, hey, Matthew King! ” Laughable but who cared?

She pounded on his office door and checked the garage. She ran to the waterfall and through the woods and back to the house. Nobody was anywhere. Crying, she kept pounding on doors and running around, yelling like crazy.

Her disappointment frightened her. The desolation was overwhelming. Probably she was just as extravagant as people said. She kept running around, crying, and still crying, ran into the fields where she flung herself into the dirt.

(To Be Continued)