Year of the Guilty Soul Read online

  “When did you get that?”

  “I went to Wegmans with Mom yesterday, and it was on the rack in the book section.”

  I can’t help smiling. I remember when I used to go with Mom and Dad to “help” with the grocery shopping. I always ended up spending most of the time in the part of the store where they keep greeting cards, gifts, and books, browsing the racks for the latest Christopher Pike or Diana Wynne Jones novel. I suppose it’s only right that Matteo is starting his journey now that I’m too old and Sofia’s almost there.

  Matteo was the “surprise baby” my parents had after they were sure they were all done. He’s in second grade, and at the beginning of this school year, he developed an obsession with Disney’s The Little Mermaid. He started asking us to call him Ariel sometimes. My parents are fairly understanding, but they drew the line there. I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately, and I’m all right with calling him that when we’re alone. At least he didn’t decide he wanted to be Tinker Bell or Duchess or Lady. I’m always afraid other kids are going to make fun of him if they find out about his name or the princess dress-up clothes and the lipsticks. I know how cruel kids can be.

  He slides closer and curls into my side. I put my arm around him, and he opens the book again. I can hear Mom rinsing the salad vegetables and Sofia talking to Vince. Dad’s probably downstairs in the family room, and Gran and Gramps aren’t here yet. I close my eyes and enjoy the little bit of quiet with Matteo before the chaos of the family dinner.

  ***

  I don’t know what this thing is with Noah. He’s called me a bunch of times, which made Sofia smirk and Mom do that thing parents do, treating phone calls from a boy like they’re as important a milestone as walking or losing a first tooth or learning to ride a two-wheeler. I’ve apparently now properly grown into being a teenager because boys want to talk to me.

  There’s a phone on the wall in our kitchen, an old one with a rotary dial. The only other phone is in my parents’ room. When I turned thirteen, I begged for a phone in the room I share with Sofia. That was the year I was hanging out with a couple of girls from school, and I was sure we were going to be just like the group from The Against Taffy Sinclair Club and that we’d be lifelong friends. This was before the rumors and the thing that happened with Philip Hanson after Homecoming.

  The best friends group fizzled out, and my parents said no to the phone. The one in their room doesn’t have a long enough cord to reach all the way down the hall, so I ask if I can go in there for some privacy. Mom’s so excited that I’m not a failure of adolescent normalcy that she doesn’t bug me about it. There’s not much Noah and I talk about that I need to keep secret from anyone, but it’s the principle of the thing.

  I couldn’t say what all we talk about, Noah and I. It’s stupid stuff, nothing that matters. Mostly our conversations are about random things we like or which teachers are okay and which ones we could do without. Noah doesn’t seem surprised when I tell him Ms. Lorring is my favorite. I have her for orchestra, and she’s probably the best music teacher I’ve had. Unfortunately, she’s been out sick for a couple of weeks. She used to go to our church too, but she hasn’t been there, either.

  Noah turns out to be a huge baseball fan. He talks about opening day the way most people act at Christmas or how movie fans get about the Oscars. Their family is originally from Ohio, so Noah’s a Reds fan. I guess it was a big deal to him when they won the World Series last fall. I try to sound like I care when he goes on about it because it’s obviously very important to him. I’ll bet he feels the same way when I talk about music. Not the stuff we’re supposed to avoid at church—we’ve never gotten around to discussing the videos. I mean when I try to explain why I like Vivaldi better than Bach or how Mozart sounds easy but really isn’t.

  The conversations never get deeper than that. He’s not the kind of guy I want to pour my heart out to. Besides, what would I tell him? I’m sure he knows the snotty popular girls still call me lezzy behind my back, but he obviously doesn’t believe them or he’d have said. I can’t tell him about Philip Hanson, and the only other big secret I have is the books under my bed that I borrowed off Mom’s shelf. Talking to Noah in my parents’ room is a good cover for sneaking them back into place and taking new ones.

  It’s not that Mom would mind, probably. I doubt she’d tell anyone, either. She has this massive collection of romance novels, and no, I’m not reading them cover to cover. They aren’t the best education, but it’s not like my parents have been all that useful.

  The next time we have a youth group meeting, Noah catches my sleeve and tells me he has something for me. I’m caught off guard because he usually pretends there’s nothing going on between us while we’re at church. Then he calls me and tells me how much he likes me. I wish I had some clue how I’m supposed to respond. Is this what it feels like to have a boyfriend?

  Gwen showed us a picture of her latest guy. He’s cute, with wavy dark hair and a lanky build. She’s lucky to be able to get someone like him to notice her. I remind myself I’m lucky too, with Noah.

  When I agree and follow him into one of the empty Sunday school rooms, he takes my hand and drops something into it. His class ring, on a long chain. I thought that was the sort of old-fashioned thing our parents did, like getting pinned and going steady. The ring itself is kind of ugly, but I don’t comment.

  “What does this mean, exactly?” I ask, slipping the chain over my head.

  “Well, I guess that we’re going out.”

  Before I can register what he’s said, Noah’s leaning in. My palms are sweaty, and my body can’t decide if it wants to be too hot or too cold. Do I want to kiss Noah? I’m not sure. We haven’t even been on a date yet. In about five seconds, I won’t have the chance to back out before it can happen. I don’t know why the first thought in my head is that I might as well get it over with.

  Noah doesn’t go for my mouth, though. He brushes against my cheek with his warm, dry lips. It’s nice. He doesn’t try to go any further. It’s gentle and so sweet I’m almost embarrassed all over again. Noah could use a shave, and I feel the scratch of his barely-there stubble as he shifts away again. I have a wild urge to giggle, but something tells me that wouldn’t be polite or fair.

  “Was that okay?” Noah asks.

  “Yeah.” The word comes out shaky, and now I do laugh, high-pitched and nervous. “It was nice.”

  I don’t know what I’m agreeing to or all the rules of whatever we are now. I don’t want to be like Bonnie, already telling everyone how she and her boyfriend are going to the same college so they don’t have to be apart. Or like Gwen, who talks all the time about being modest and pure but is always nearly in the lap of whichever boy she’s currently dating.

  We step out of the Sunday school room, and Noah takes my hand. It feels weird to be walking back toward the others like that. Everyone will see, and they’ll know what’s going on. I look over at him, and he’s as red-faced as I feel. Suddenly it’s okay; we’re in this together, and Noah isn’t any more brave or experienced than I am. I give his hand a squeeze, and he smiles at me.

  The rest of the night is a blur. People keep sneaking glances at us, but it all seems to be low-key and casual. After youth group, we all pile into the upperclassmen’s cars and ride to Denny’s like usual. Noah slides into the booth first, then me, and I’m surprised when it’s Cari who takes the last spot on the bench.

  Her clothes are more subdued tonight, just ripped gray jeans and a black sweater. Her choker has an ornate silver cross, and her earrings look like long daggers with a blood-red stone in the middle. She has on the same cranberry-colored lipstick I like. I wish I could pull off that kind of makeup, but I’m afraid it would make me look ridiculous instead of pretty.

  “You and Noah, huh?” she asks. There’s neither judgment nor enthusiasm in her tone.

  “Yeah, looks that way.” I show her the ring.

  “Interesting,” she says. “I didn’t know people still di
d that.”

  I giggle. “Me neither.” I look sideways at Noah to see if he’s heard, but he’s not paying us any attention. He’s laughing at some stupid joke the kid across from him made.

  “I think it’s cool,” Cari says. “It’s different.”

  The fact that Cari said it’s cool makes me blush, though I’m not sure why. For some reason, I don’t want to disappoint her. We’re not much alike, and we haven’t spent a lot of time together. But she fascinates me, and I don’t want her to think I’m a hopeless dork. She smiles at me, and I finally relax.

  I elbow Noah and ask if he wants to split an order of fries. He shrugs and says sure before going right back to whatever he and the other guys are talking about. Cari peers around me and gives him a bemused look. It feels strange and grown-up having a boyfriend, though I will never admit that to anyone because I already feel a million miles behind everyone else when it comes to dating. Still, it’s nice to have someone to share my fries with.

  ***

  This is the first Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had an actual valentine. In fourth grade, back when we still exchanged cards in class, there was this boy who sat behind me. He gave me a giant one with a pink elephant on it that said, “How about a big kiss?” Needless to say, I did not kiss him. But it was the closest I ever came until now to going out with anyone.

  We don’t do anything right on Valentine’s Day except talk on the phone because it’s a school night. At this point, Noah and I have yet to go on a real date at all. He came over once, supposedly to do homework. Instead, he let Sofia and me paint his nails with her hot pink Wet n Wild polish while Mom was making dinner. We laughed so loud Mom came out twice to give us The Eye. Noah said he thought the polish looked great.

  On Saturday, Noah takes me to see White Fang for our first official date. I don’t know whether it’s because he really wants to see it or because he thinks I do. Not that I would tell him this, but I’m perfectly fine with watching Ethan Hawke for an hour and a half. I’m sure the dog is great too.

  Noah offers to get popcorn, but I’m always wary about eating in front of people, so I say no thanks. He seems relieved that he doesn’t have to spend more money, and I let him think that’s why I told him no. Inside the theater, we sit somewhere toward the middle. Noah tries to hold my hand, but after about two minutes, it’s too sweaty and I take my hand back. He drapes his arm over the back of my seat, and all I can think is that I hope he doesn’t try to move his hand anytime soon.

  At fifteen, I shouldn’t still be treating this date like we’re seventh graders playing at being grown up. Sofia would probably be more mature on a date if our parents let her. I’m reminded again how backwards I feel compared to everyone else my age, while at the same time wondering if I shouldn’t be waiting until I’m older.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I like Noah a lot. We’ve had fun talking on the phone and sitting together at Denny’s when we go out after youth group. He’s cute. Maybe not Ethan-Hawke-as-Todd-Anderson cute, but definitely Matthew-Broderick-as-Ferris-Bueller cute. Except he doesn’t make my stomach flutter or my knees shake, and sometimes I wish we could go back to being just friends. Everything was less complicated then.

  Noah’s been pretty patient with me, but even he probably has his limits. Isn’t that what everyone says, that boys have expectations? I’d say that’s what happened with Philip, but it’s not even close. His expectations didn’t have anything to do with wanting me. At some point, I’m going to have to stop going back and forth on this and make a decision.

  After about ten minutes of this internal fight with myself, I relax back against the seat. Noah’s arm drops so it’s resting on me, his left hand playing with my sleeve a little. It surprises me that I like it. He’s nice, not trying to do anything else. Maybe I’m wrong about him. It makes it easy to settle in and enjoy the movie.

  When the film is done, Noah takes me across the street to a diner where we order hot cocoa. He does that thing I like, where he fiddles with the cuff of my sweatshirt. It feels more intimate than having his arm around me in the theater.

  The server interrupts my thoughts with the hot cocoas she sets down on the table. Noah picks up his spoon and immediately eats all the whipped cream off the top. I like to let mine melt so it changes the flavor of the cocoa.

  “So,” he says, pausing to lick a bit of whipped cream off his upper lip, “have you heard anything about what’s going on with Ms. Lorring?”

  Noah’s not in orchestra; he’s in band. But everyone sort of knows everyone else in the music classes. Ms. Lorring has been out for so long it’s not really news anymore, but it is of interest because no one seems to have any idea why she’s been absent.

  “No. We’ve had a sub, and she’s okay. She was the student teacher last year. I don’t think she knows anything, or if she does, she’s not saying.”

  “My dad thinks—” Noah cuts himself off.

  “What?”

  “He thinks it’s serious. Like…cancer. Or…something.”

  I get the feeling there’s more Noah’s not telling me or more his dad hasn’t told him. I stick my spoon in my cocoa. “Obviously it’s serious. She’s been out for a month already.”

  “Dad says there’s stuff people don’t know about her.”

  “Like what?”

  Noah has the good sense to blush. “He won’t say. Something about her ‘lifestyle.’ That could mean, like, a bunch of things.”

  He drops the subject after that, and I’m glad. It made me uncomfortable, like it was something we shouldn’t be talking about. I look out the window to see both that it’s snowing again and that Dad’s pulled up outside the diner.

  We drive Noah home, and I walk him to the door. I’m shivering, but I don’t ask if I can come inside and Noah doesn’t offer. Instead, he leans in. I surreptitiously peek over my shoulder to see if Dad’s looking. He’s not, so I lean in too. We meet a little too quickly, but Noah recovers and shifts so the kiss is nice and not painful. He tastes like cocoa, and I think this isn’t half bad for a first time.

  Noah ends the kiss, and I follow his gaze. Now Dad really is watching us, and my cheeks heat up despite the frosty air. Noah grins, squeezes my hand, and ducks inside his house. I retreat to the car.

  I like that Dad doesn’t make a big deal on the ride back to our house. He’s good that way sometimes, letting a thing be unless I want to talk about it. Mom would use prompts that sound like she read them in Redbook magazine. Basically advice on how to grill your teenager without seeming like that’s what you’re doing. How she hasn’t figured out I read those magazines so I know what she’s up to is beyond me.

  Later that night, I’m up in the room I share with Sofia. After that Sunday school video series, I took my tapes off the shelf and put them in a box. I now have it on my bed, looking through them. It’s pretty standard stuff. I’m not really into the kinds of hard rock they showed in those videos. Mostly these are mix tapes of stuff I recorded off the radio. The only one missing is a Metallica album my cousin gave me, which I unspooled just in case.

  While I sort through the tapes, I think about my date with Noah. It was nice. I’m not sure how I feel about having a boyfriend. I still notice other guys, even when I’m with him. I also still read those novels I sneak out of Mom and Dad’s room, but I don’t replace the characters with visions of Noah and me. And I don’t mention even to myself that it’s not always boys I want to look at.

  Sometimes I wonder if the people at church are right and I’m letting myself be too influenced by music or books. I didn’t care much when the guy in the videos talked about violence or Satanism. I’m not that interested in either of those things. But the stuff about sex…I worry that it’s not normal for girls to think about it so much. Boys, yeah. Everyone says we have to be careful because they’re so easily tempted. But girls? No one talks about that.

  Sofia eyes me from her bed. “Are you gonna put that away and turn out the lights?”

  “
Yeah, okay.”

  I slide the box back under my bed. Maybe tomorrow I’ll get rid of the rest of those tapes. My hand brushes the book I’ve hidden. I should put it back and not take another one, get my thought life under control like they say.

  I withdraw my hand and turn off the bedside lamp. Once I’m snuggled down under the covers, I wait and listen for the even breathing that tells me Sofia’s asleep. If I’m going to start being good, especially now that I’m dating Noah, I can do it tomorrow. Tonight, I take one last opportunity to slide my hand under the waistband of my pajamas. As I close my eyes, it’s not Noah’s face I imagine while I touch myself.

  April

  It’s still chilly the second week of April. The big holidays have come and gone. Being from a multi-faith family means we half-heartedly celebrate all of them, which is always interesting. We don’t normally keep kosher, but Dad does for Passover, which means beforehand Bubbe’s always in our house, helping Mom get rid of everything we’re not supposed to have. Fortunately, my parents avoided the whole issue of what candy we were allowed by not giving us any.

  The pick-a-mix religious celebrations in our house never struck me as strange until I was in fourth grade or so. That was the point at which I found out most people only do one. I discovered most people then—as now—decide which one I am by different means. If they know we celebrate Christmas and Easter, they’ll assume we’re Christians. If they can correctly pronounce my last name, they’ll assume we’re Jewish. Inevitably, someone’s bound to be disappointed.

  It wasn’t long after that when I read Judy Blume’s Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. Everyone mocks it for being “the period book,” which I guess it kind of is. That’s not why I read it so often the cover fell off and half the pages were dog-eared. Margaret Simon is like me—her father is Jewish. Almost everyone I’ve ever met with one Jewish parent, it’s their mom. This was the first time I ever saw myself in a character. I related a lot more to her search for faith than to her wish to be a grown-up. I didn’t care much about periods or training bras, but I sure did want to know what I was supposed to be.