The Whole Golden World Read online

  Maybe at BU she could confide in her roommate. This roommate—a worldly girl from New York, or maybe literally worldly, from France or Korea—would say yes! I have crazy dreams, too! Or maybe she wouldn’t, but she’d nod with the sage maturity that must come from growing up somewhere way cooler than Arbor Valley, Michigan.

  She hadn’t exactly mentioned Boston to her parents. But once she started the online applications and had her mother’s credit card at her disposal, it wouldn’t be so hard just to add another to the list.

  The poem began to take shape beneath her fingers; it was no more cheerful than her middle-school death verse had been.

  She used to try and force herself to write something sweet and pretty, so she could show people, and teachers would hang it in their hallways and her parents would beam with pride. But those attempts resulted in her hand freezing over the paper. Morgan gave up fighting and tried to accept her unchangeable nature.

  She propped up the notebook in front of her on the bed, and stretched out on her stomach, her chin in her hands, and reread some of her handiwork.

  Beauty scarred

  Is beauty still

  But not if

  The scar

  Swallows up what

  Is lovely pure precious

  Leaving tough dead skin behind

  Pounding on the door startled her. “Dammit,” she muttered, and stuffed her notebook back under her mattress. She straightened the comforter and shouted, “Just a minute!”

  She yanked open the door to see Connor there, frowning hard.

  “What!” she demanded.

  “I’m . . . Um. Mom said to ask . . .”

  “Connor, spit it out.”

  “She said to ask you for help with my math.”

  Morgan let a sigh slip out.

  Connor started to storm away. “Fine, be that way. I’ll just go fail like I always do because it’s too much trouble.”

  “No, stop.” Morgan fought to scrub her voice of irritation. “It’s fine. I’m not annoyed with you. It’s not your fault . . .”

  Connor stopped and slumped in the doorway. “Not my fault that I’m stupid?”

  “I was going to say not your fault that ninth-grade math is hard.” Not your fault that Mom makes me take care of you. “Come on in. Where’s Jared?”

  “He says he already finished his work at school.”

  Morgan knew the school had decided to split up the boys in different classes, so they would learn to be separate entities. The truth being, of course, that the two of them often brought out the worst in each other.

  She leaned over Connor’s shoulder after he perched cross-legged on the bed. As she helped explain the concepts of basic algebra—didn’t his teacher go over this? she wondered—another part of her unbusy brain calculated the exact number of days left until graduation, then added eighty-five days for a reasonable summer vacation.

  Connor smiled up at her so gratefully that she tasted a spike of bitter guilt at her secret hunger to escape.

  “It would be understandable to resent your brothers,” her mother had told her more than once in private moments, ticking off the reasons (as if Morgan didn’t know them), like the fact their doctor appointments and tutoring and general caretaking sucked up so much of Dinah’s time and energy. Morgan had learned to do her homework in her lap in waiting rooms, while the boys were being ministered to by this or that doctor or therapist or tutor.

  Morgan always knew better than to cop to even a hint of resentment, though. They’d gone down that long, tortured road after the boys’ wrestling match knocked Morgan into the dining room table, which shattered a vase of peonies in such dramatic fashion that a shard leaped up and sliced Morgan’s face.

  That day, the vase-smashing day, she’d been crying while the doctor stitched her face; it had felt like a line of fire, despite the supposed numbing medicine. Dinah had to keep reaching over and dabbing her cheek dry with a cloth so the doctor could sew. When the doctor was finished, Dinah said, “The boys just feel terrible,” and Morgan shot back, “I wish they’d never been born.”

  Dinah’s face contorted with such anguish that momentarily Morgan wished she’d been the one never born.

  That was fifth grade. Just before middle school, when everyone started caring the most about physical appearance. Just when people were starting to comment how pretty she was becoming.

  Dinah then launched a not-subtle-at-all campaign to convince Morgan how wonderful her brothers were by taking all of them to the park and the roller rink and the beach, forcing the boys to make handicrafts that said “We love Morgan” with painted handprints.

  Everyone was more miserable than ever. Finally, Morgan made a big show of forgiving her brothers and Dinah gave it up.

  “Okay,” the ninth-grade Connor said, in Morgan’s room. “I think I get it now.”

  Morgan tried not to show how relieved she was that he would finally get out of her space. “Good,” she said, nodding.

  He gathered his things but paused just before leaving. “Hey, Morticia?”

  “Yeah, Dork?”

  “Will you still help me next year? You know, on the computer? Mom said she’d get a webcam for us so we could all stay in touch.”

  “It’s a lost cause, you know.” She smirked at this. “But, sure. I’ll help.”

  She closed the door behind him and rested her forehead against the faux woodgrain, listening to his heavy footsteps move off to the room he shared with Jared. She remained there with her head on the door, feeling smaller and smaller, as if she really were being swallowed up, like Alice in Wonderland, or Jonah, or nightmare-Morgan who ended up flailing, looking for her own head.

  5

  Rain took her time finding her house key as she stood on her back porch, sipping in the cool evening air that already carried the bracing hint of autumn. She felt drained in every kind of way: physically from having to teach yoga all afternoon and then hauling Dog to the vet and back; mentally by having to show around the new girl, Layla. Drained of life that might have been.

  She thought she’d beaten back thoughts of her failure at conception until the prenatal yoga class trooped in, belly after happy glowing belly.

  Thank God she didn’t teach that one, at least.

  She finally turned the key to see TJ sprawled on the couch, his tie undone, shirt untucked, the laugh track of a sitcom the only sound in the house. His five o’clock shadow was in full effect, TJ being one of those men whose face seemed determined to grow a full ZZ-Top-style beard. Rain appreciated the rugged look, less so the whisker burn on her cheek.

  “Hey, hon,” she said.

  “Hi,” he responded with a wan smile. First days could be like that, Rain had learned; depending on the makeup of the classes, he would come home feeling energized or defeated, even on day one.

  “That bad?” she said, trying to smile and sound relaxed.

  He smirked. “Third hour is gonna be a walk through the valley of the shadow of death.”

  “Oh, come on,” she replied, and plopped herself down next to him. “They won’t kill you. Not with anything sharp, anyway, because that’s against school rules, right? What are the school rules on large blunt objects?”

  By way of response, TJ leaned his head onto her shoulder for a moment.

  “Did you eat?” Rain asked.

  “I’m not hungry. I grabbed a snack on the way home.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll have some leftovers.”

  She had her back to the living room as she retrieved leftover pasta salad from the Labor Day barbecue, so Rain wasn’t sure she heard TJ right when he said, “Greg called.”

  “What was that?” she asked, closing the refrigerator and turning back to him.

  “Greg called. Alessia sends her love,” he repeated, exasperation turning his voice sour.

  “Oh. What did he have to say?”

  TJ slumped lower on the couch. “Just that he’s still filthy fucking rich and wants to throw a party about it.”
/>
  Rain stood in the kitchen, still holding her salad. “And has he registered for gifts? Maybe at Sharper Image? Radio Shack?” She tossed her hair and affected a laugh.

  TJ jerked the remote at the TV to shut it off and tossed it to the floor.

  Rain abandoned her pasta and came to his side on the couch. “You’re still more handsome than your brother. You’ll always have that.”

  “Till I get old and fat. I’m almost middle-aged.”

  “Twenty-nine hardly makes you middle-aged. Anyway, you’re not going to get fat. No way,” Rain said, and ran her hand along his waistband to his muscled abdomen under his untucked shirt. “Not you.”

  TJ snapped out of his lethargy and turned to her, crushing Rain beneath a sudden, hard kiss, tipping her back on the couch. He moved his mouth to her neck where he sucked and nibbled. His whiskers were scratching her chest, his hands kneading her breasts through her shirt, then moving down to the waistband of her yoga pants.

  “TJ,” she whispered. “Today isn’t the best . . .”

  He sat back just as suddenly as he’d pinned her to the couch. He looked at the floor and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he blurted, and ran up the steps like he was leaping hurdles.

  Rain adjusted her rumpled clothes and then punched a sofa pillow. On another day she would have rallied. She could have ignored her yoga sweat, her muscle soreness, and risen to his passion, letting him take her right there on the couch. She had done as much, any number of times, and usually enjoyed it once they got going.

  Rain put the pasta away, no longer hungry.

  She tried to imagine the real conversation TJ must have had. Greg probably called to invite them for dinner on the weekend. He did this often. Greg and Alessia had just built a new house with a huge dining area for entertaining and they enjoyed using it. Dr. Gregory Hill and his stunning wife would serve delectable food and amuse their guests with some hilariously disarming story, like when he met her family in Milan and Alessia’s mother declared Greg in arch, accented English, to be “fugly and a hot mess” for wearing a shirt without a collar. She’d picked up the expression by reading American magazines in preparation for meeting her daughter’s American boyfriend.

  Everyone would laugh, and everyone would adore them, including TJ and Greg’s parents, who would be as dazzled as anyone, or more so.

  Rain walked up the stairs to change her clothes. She peeled off her sweaty outfit and chose a white eyelet nightgown that wouldn’t cling to her anywhere. Teaching yoga meant her work clothes couldn’t drape anywhere lest they fall over her face; on her off hours she preferred her clothes to swirl around her freely.

  She heard the shower turn off and paused in the act of brushing out her hair in front of the vanity mirror over her dresser. The master bathroom door was visible in the mirror behind her.

  TJ emerged wearing boxers and nothing else, his deep brown hair spiky-wet, his chest slick from the shower. Rain cursed her period again.

  He offered her a shy smile, then a downward glance.

  “Sorry, babe. I was a jerk,” he said, then joined her at the mirror. He held her from behind and nuzzled her neck. She could barely hear him as he murmured, “What did I ever do to deserve a girl as great as you?”

  She turned in the circle of his arms and tossed away her hairbrush, fitting herself to him. Lucky girl, her mother had said the day she got married, and Rain had agreed, that day and every day hence. I’m a lucky girl indeed.

  She reminded herself how exhausting it was for TJ to be the “fun teacher,” the role he had chosen for himself. All day, every day he had to be on, and up, and “dialed all the way up to eleven” as he put it, all the while maintaining a tricky balance between allowing just enough jovial fun without letting the classroom unravel into chaos. She could relate, in fact. A yoga teacher must be wise and serene and believe wholeheartedly in chakras and chanting ancient Sanskrit words, in giving up your stress to the Universe, in the one giving way to the One.

  Rain always thought that kind of talk was silly; she just enjoyed the flexibility and strength and grace all twining together in a lovely physical form. She would have to stifle giggles when Beverly said something New Agey, like “lying on the floor with intention” in savasana.

  But her students were paying for the wise, serene yogi, and so she must be, all the time, no matter how she really felt.

  TJ kissed the top of her head and patted her hip in a “we’re done here” dismissal. “You know, I am kind of hungry after all.”

  Rain’s appetite was still long gone, her abdomen ached, her back cramped. But she smiled to see her husband climb out of the pit of his dark mood. “Rain’s famous fajitas. Coming right up.”

  6

  Britney leaned on the locker next to Morgan, fluffing her strawberry blond hair and slicking on shiny pink lip gloss.

  “So what have you got next?”

  Morgan groaned and leaned her head on her just-closed locker. “Calc. With David.”

  Britney paused in her glossing, then put away her makeup and stepped closer to Morgan, who was rather enjoying the hard feeling of the metal on her forehead. The sensation seemed to dull the creeping sense of anxiety that had been crawling up her spine this time of day all week, ever since she spotted her ex-boyfriend in her fifth-hour calculus class.

  “So what if he’s there? Walk in there looking gorgeous, so he realizes what he gave up.”

  Britney grabbed Morgan’s shoulders, pulled her up square to face her. She reached out and started to fuss with Morgan’s hair. “You know what?” She grabbed handfuls of hair and pulled it up behind Morgan’s head. “You’d look fabulous with short hair. Your face is stunning but you can hardly see it . . .”

  Morgan was already shaking Britney’s hands off her. “Let go of me. I’m not your . . . house pet.” Morgan pushed her hair back in front of her shoulders; more to the point, in front of her scar.

  “I just wish you wouldn’t hide yourself behind your hair.”

  “I like it long. Anyway, I’ve gotta go, we’re gonna be late.”

  Britney shrugged and snapped her gum. “Later, then. Give my love to Mr. Hill . . .” She said this last with a wink. Morgan rolled her eyes, but smiled, too. The consolation prize for having to suffer through a postlunch advanced math class with her arrogant ex-boyfriend was her favorite teacher. Mr. Hill had taught Morgan’s freshman algebra class, and his charm and enthusiasm had won over even the most cynical of kids. He was the type of teacher to high-five kids in the halls and joke around about Snooki and Jersey Shore, instead of acting like the kids today are on a fast train to hell, like some of the older teachers who walked around scowling most of the time. He’d been visibly nervous the first few days of calc, seeming to cringe when a student asked him a difficult question, which made her feel oddly protective of him. She wanted to cheer him on: You can do it, Mr. Hill! If only to see his smile, which was one of those smiles that could melt polar ice when it was big and true.

  Morgan bounced around like a pinball between the larger, more brash students as she fought her way to the math hallway. She thought she felt a hand brush her ass but it might have been the edge of someone’s bag, or jacket, and she didn’t have time to care. The noise in the halls seemed to turn up like someone was cranking the volume knob as she approached the math corridor, and a headache started to throb behind her forehead. Sleeplessness was taking its toll; the dreams had been back in force last night, and she woke up feeling so sore and sleepy she questioned if she should bother getting into bed at all.

  She edged into class as the bell chimed, slipping into her assigned seat that was not far enough away from David.

  “Hey,” he’d said to her the first day when she’d walked in. “How was your summer?”

  Like there was nothing to it. Like they hadn’t been dating all junior year and like they hadn’t broken up just before prom and she had to watch him take Ashley instead.

  Britney had said that cle
arly meant it was nothing to him, therefore he was a rat bastard and better forgotten. But Britney draped herself across the lap of every guy she ran across, so what would she know about her and David?

  Morgan looked up and cut her eyes sideways, two rows over, to David. He was tapping his pencil on his notebook and looked half asleep.

  Mr. Hill was taking attendance, and he had to call her name twice before she reacted, and only then because the jerkface football jock behind her poked her in the back with his pencil.

  Morgan had pressed David for a reason why he broke up with her—he did this at the mall, in the food court, over a soggy eggroll and fried rice—and he would only say he didn’t “feel the same” anymore. Finally he blurted, “You’re so serious all the time. I want to have a little fun once in a while.”

  She blurted back the first thing that sprang to mind. “Sex is fun.”

  Morgan cringed to replay that moment. She wished with every cell in her body she’d said that flirtatiously, or at least with a smile, but instead she’d been offering it as a serious piece of evidence. Exhibit A, ladies and gentlemen, is that we had sex at least twice a week since winter break and Mr. David Archer demonstrated and verbalized his enjoyment.

  He’d had the nerve to blush. He blushed! Morgan was still fixated on that. He was the one who urged her to get on the pill, who persuaded, reasoned, begged in fact, to have sex. He was the one who asked for oral sex and always had the courtesy to make sure he was all clean and fresh first, which at the time she took as a form of gallantry.

  And there he was, blushing into his fried rice because she said sex was fun?

  This was all over in about two heartbeats, because by then Morgan realized what he meant by this line of thinking: He would just have sex with other girls, who would also be fun when fully clothed.