Brilliant Read online

  Brilliant

  Rachel Vail

  TO ZACHARY

  Contents

  1

  SHE TOOK MY ROOM AWAY.

  2

  I DIDN’T INTEND TO STEAL her shoes, and the fact…

  3

  I SLEPT IN THE GUEST ROOM because of the fumes,…

  4

  THAT NIGHT, WHILE I WAS fast asleep in my/not-my room,…

  5

  TODAY WAS THE FIRST DAY with campers.

  6

  I DIDN’T TEXT BACK, not right away, and I didn’t…

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING ALLISON was in the kitchen when I…

  8

  I HAD TO INTERRUPT MY PARENTS at the lawyer’s office.

  9

  I STOPPED AS SOON AS I realized what I was…

  10

  THE NEXT NIGHT WE WENT to the fireworks at the…

  11

  I TOTALLY WOULD HAVE walked right by, but Oliver was…

  12

  HERE IS THE THING ABOUT a real estate open house.

  13

  THE FIRST SHOCK WAS JELLY. I got into the car…

  14

  I WOKE UP WITH SORE LIPS the next morning. I’d…

  15

  I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING absolutely, resolutely cheerful.

  16

  NOBODY WAS HOME WHEN I got there, so I was…

  17

  WHEN I GOT MY STUMBLING self to Oliver’s, he wasn’t…

  18

  “SATURDAY?” MOM ASKED AGAIN.

  19

  I GRABBED MOM’S SHOES and skipped barefoot out the door…

  20

  I SPENT THE NIGHT WAKING up sweating, shivering, wishing somebody…

  21

  TWO HOURS LATER, HE texted me asking if we could…

  22

  I WAS A SUBPAR ROLE MODEL yet again. I had…

  23

  THE PARTY WAS LOUD, HOT, and sticky. It smelled like…

  24

  THE NIGHT WAS QUIET AND STILL.

  25

  “OLIVER.”

  26

  OLIVER OFFERED TO WALK me in, but I asked him…

  27

  ON OUR WAY UP THE STAIRS, my sisters flanked me.

  28

  OLIVER.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Rachel Vail

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  SHE TOOK MY ROOM AWAY.

  Not literally, of course. The room is still there, through the door from the hall, across from my younger sisters’ rooms, where it was this morning when I left. It’s just not mine anymore, not really, not recognizably, because my brilliant mother, master of the universe, Porsche-in-woman-form, had my red room painted white while I was at camp orientation today.

  She didn’t think it would matter to me.

  My red, red room has been whitewashed.

  She actually didn’t think it would matter to me. I am prepared to believe the truth of that statement. It’s a compliment, really. She thought it wouldn’t matter to me, so it can’t. I can’t let it.

  We’re moving soon anyway (which is a big part of why it shouldn’t—doesn’t—matter to me), and apparently people are afraid of red rooms.

  “Why would people be afraid of red rooms?” I asked her, instead of, How could you do this to me? Without even asking me?

  She shook her head over the disbelief we shared about the numbskull Others, the rest of the world who were not Avery Women, not Us, people who were afraid of red rooms. “Hard to fathom how they function at all.”

  “The redness of my room was literally scaring people away from buying our house?” I mumbled to her, standing by her side in the hall, peering into the white room that used to be my room.

  She laughed her irresistible laugh and said, “Exactly. Unbelievable.”

  “I liked it red,” I managed.

  “That’s because you’re extraordinary, Quinn.” She threw her arm around my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “You’re the best,” she whispered, then kissed my hair and strode off in her smooth, long-legged way toward her room, checking her BlackBerry as she went.

  Even Porsches have blind spots.

  Weird that before we moved in, when my room was white, I could see it red exactly as it would be and eventually became. Now, after four years of living in it red and only like half an hour of whiteness, I cannot for the life of me summon the exact tint of red it was, or remember if that molding a foot from the ceiling was red like the walls beneath it or white like the section above. I don’t know.

  I don’t know.

  Maybe it’s the paint fumes but I feel seriously off.

  How can I not picture my room as it was this morning?

  We were the first family ever to live in this house. We walked through it, all five of us, before the doorways had doors, when all the walls were still toxic-smelling white, and crinkly brown paper was taped in runways on the floors. It was mostly just beams and plasterboard then. It echoed.

  Mom kept murmuring, Beautiful. What I was thinking was Huge. It looked big enough for ten families but absurd for just the five of us. We walked around with our arms bumping into one another’s, in a tight family clump. Allison chose her bedroom first. It was the biggest one, the one with the huge walk-in closet with double doors. She was ready with multiple arguments, geared up to fight.

  I told her it was fine; she could have that room.

  Phoebe said she didn’t care which of the other two rooms she got. She was only eight. It was almost impossible for anyone to deny her anything, then or still, even if she didn’t ask for it or know she wanted it. I gave her the bigger of the rooms, the one closer to Mom and Dad. I knew she’d like both of those qualities of it.

  Later that day, when we were back in our old, suddenly cramped and cruddy house, Mom and Dad each caught me alone and whispered that they were proud of how generous I was being about choosing bedrooms at the new house. Such a good girl. I was grateful for the praise, but I was fooling only them, not myself: I knew it wasn’t generosity inspiring me.

  If we had to move here, I wanted that room, this room, my room. As soon as I saw it, I knew that I’d ask to have it painted red, even though blue was and remains my favorite color. It surprised everybody, which I don’t usually do. I’m obviously not somebody who’d have a red room. But I could just see it painted red with bright white trim as soon as I walked into it. I knew in that first instant that this was my room.

  I let everybody think I was selfless, though.

  I liked that my room faced east, so I would get the morning light. Even then, four years ago, when I was an awkward and introverted twelve-and-a-half-year-old, I preferred to be the first one to see the new day. It gave me a feeling of control.

  Or it could be that I had read something about Islamic culture that stuck with me.

  The other part that I appreciated about my room was that it faced front. I have always liked knowing who is coming or going, and despite what my sisters may think, I don’t just mean Oliver.

  Oliver.

  I know, I know. But he is perfect, and though he has only polite interest in me at most, it is hard to let go of fantasies even when you are a realist and almost seventeen.

  When I first heard my parents arguing in whispers about whether we were going to lose the house, I wasn’t scared. Instead I was overwhelmingly tempted to run downstairs and explain to them the absurdity of that construction: We can’t lose this house. It is huge and immovable, solid now. The house will lose us, if anything.

  But of course that wasn’t the point (grammar is so rarely the point, sadly), and wouldn’t change the point, would only rev
eal my eavesdropping and make my parents coo and reassure, or maybe look at me in that tilted way they sometimes do, like, Are you delusional or just odd?

  So I said nothing. As usual.

  Sometime in the near future we’ll move, but already right now my room isn’t my room anymore. It will soon be somebody else’s room, with somebody else’s stuff in the closet and somebody else looking out the east-facing window to see who is coming and who is going, and maybe wishing that he would once, just once please look up at this window as he leaves. Someone else will gaze into the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door and not see me reflected there but herself.

  But for now this room isn’t somebody else’s yet.

  It’s just not mine anymore, either.

  Soon I’ll be gone, and all the possible me’s, all the things I imagined doing in this house, in this room, won’t exist anymore. I’ll never have sex in this room. I’ll never climb out this window onto the ledge and look down at a boy who is looking up at me, like Romeo, with love in his eyes. I won’t finish growing up in this room.

  We won’t be the last family to live in this house.

  We will be replaced.

  Re-placed.

  Placed again, but in a different place.

  I am sitting here alone in the doorway of my toxic-white-paint-fume-infested, east-facing room confronting the awful truth that I am completely, devastatingly replaceable.

  2

  I DIDN’T INTEND TO STEAL her shoes, and the fact that I sort of actually did steal her shoes was definitely not about revenge or retribution.

  I just couldn’t get myself over the threshold into my room. After sitting there thinking for a while, I realized what the problem was. Clearly I was uncomfortable about how things had been handled and needed to talk with Mom about it. That seemed like a fully reasonable response, a mature way to handle things—discuss it, air my grievance, persuade her that she had handled it badly. Even if it didn’t turn my room red, well, maybe an apology would help me deal with it better than sitting in the hall, silently cursing.

  The thing is—well, one minor thing is—I don’t curse. I don’t even curse inside the private confines of my own mind. I had decided back in ninth grade that cursing is a sign of either laziness or poorly developed vocabulary. But there, as I sat outside my ex-room, with curses raging in my brain, it occurred to me that maybe I had always been a wrongheaded prig about curses, and that in fact there was a place in my vocabulary, at least my silent thought vocabulary, for an occasional expletive.

  Or maybe, judging by the crazy combinations of words chasing one another through my head, referring to body parts, biological functions, and questionable circumstances of parentage, Allison’s brain had been transplanted into my skull.

  No. I am Quinn, not crazy, raging Allison; I am the oldest, the one who handles things well and doesn’t curse. I must get a grip.

  So I just took a few deep breaths and walked down the hall to Mom’s room to discuss what had happened. As I got closer I considered various ways of beginning the conversation, such as, for instance, Mom, maybe you could have discussed the painting of my room with me ahead of time, instead of just, “Surprise! We have erased you! Now cope with it!”

  No, that’s not what happened. This is just a difficult time, I reminded myself, because of the Situation; I have to be patient with myself, and my sisters and Dad, of course, but most of all with Mom. She is counting on me. Patient and also vigilant.

  Which is why Allison and I hooked up the baby monitor back in May: so we could spy on our parents as they talked with my mother’s spherical lawyer about what they called, with capitalization and italics in their voices, the Situation.

  Of course, I already knew what had happened. Mom had gotten fired.

  It’s not like it was a mystery. She had told us over chicken and broccoli at dinner the day after it happened. She was, as always, very factual and calm and precise about it. No hysteria from Mom. We all, especially I, try to live up to her high standard of handling things well and unemotionally. We finished our chicken and our broccoli, cleared our plates, and went up to our rooms to do our homework. The next morning at dawn, when only the two of us were up, Mom told me that she was counting on me to help my sisters cope. I said, “Of course, Mom. Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about us.”

  The fact that she was fired did not change my feelings about her one bit. I told Allison and Phoebe that it was actually amazing she lasted as long as she did in that place, with all the knives sharpened against her.

  My mother started out as a junior assistant at Excelsior Capital after she went to business school at night when we were little. She found out really quickly that she was good at making money, better than the guys she worked for, better than she’d been at anything else in her life.

  (“Other than being a mom,” Phoebe always prompted her at this point in her story. Mom would blink twice, focusing on her youngest child’s upturned face, and then answer, “Thank you, Phoebe. What a sweet thing to say.” She seemed surprised by the interruption every time, and maybe she actually was.)

  She made a daring gamble as soon as she had the chance at Excelsior. She “went to the edge” is the expression she uses, but I am sure it is a figurative edge. She basically gambled a huge amount of money and won.

  Her picture was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. It was the kind of picture that is called a dot picture, because instead of a photograph or drawing, there is a likeness made pointillistically by a computer. Although Seurat has nothing to worry about, this is apparently quite a big deal in the business world. Dad bought six copies of the paper that day, and a big bouquet of stargazer lilies to hand her when she walked in the door. My sisters and I were dancing around singing, “Hooray for Mommy!” I made her a pop-up congratulations card and let Allison and Phoebe sign it, too, even though they hadn’t helped, and it had taken all of my ingenuity and tape.

  The only person we knew at that point who’d had her picture in the newspaper was Liz Anne Montgomery, and that was for falling down a sewer hole and subsequently getting rescued by two firefighters with a rigged seat made of rope. Liz Anne Montgomery, who was an otherwise unnoticed child with unfortunately trimmed bangs, was a celebrity around school for a full week after that. She had to use crutches because of getting thirteen stitches and a sprain in her knee; we all jostled to get chosen to carry her books and lunch box for her from our classroom to art or the lunchroom.

  Liz Anne Montgomery’s picture was just in the local paper, not the Wall Street Journal, which was a serious paper, for adults only, no advice columns or comics, no frills except the dot pictures.

  Also, realistically, falling down a sewer is not that impressive a feat, even for a chubby second grader. Liz Anne Montgomery faded from the spotlight once the crutches were gone, and her family moved to Ohio (it might have been Iowa) by the end of the year.

  But Mom had apparently achieved something incredibly impressive to get her picture in the paper, and the phone didn’t stop ringing that night, even after ten, long after we’d gone to bed full of ice cream and pride.

  We weren’t sure exactly what it was she’d done. We could tell by her face that it was big, and great.

  It was soon after the dot picture that we got our new house, and the grand piano Mom bought for Dad to take up some room in the vast emptiness of the living room, and maybe also some of his time, because while she was out late with clients or on business trips, he would play the piano. It sounded much fuller than the upright that came with us from the old house and is now in the back left corner of our basement, with three lacrosse sticks and five bent or too-short ski poles stacked on top of it, the hinged door closed over its stained keys.

  But just like he had in our old house with the upright, each night at bedtime Dad played some Beatles tunes, the bits of Beethoven’s Ninth that he could remember, and finally “Summertime” from the opera Porgy and Bess. I would fall asleep every night to the reass
uring sounds of the unrecognizable old songs he played softly after “Summertime.”

  The Situation seems in some ways like a mirror image of that dot-picture time. Mom made a huge gamble and everything changed as a result.

  The dot-picture time, Mom got a new job title. She took a day off to buy new clothes, mostly Armani, and five pairs of impossibly beautiful pumps from Neiman Marcus to take the place of her old Frye boots. My sisters and I claimed the shoe boxes for dioramas. Sometimes we snuck into her closet and, breathing her perfume off her camisoles, tried on her shoes. They were so big, and the heels so high, we would tumble in heaps on top of one another. It felt daring and naughty and exhilarating trying on Mom’s shoes. I was the one who always stopped the giggling before we got caught, and lined the shoes back up so nobody would know what we’d done.

  We moved to this house later that spring, and started swimming in our own pool instead of the town pool and playing tennis on our own tennis court instead of the concrete court behind the high school. We each had our own room. I got a laptop and started taking piano lessons from the mom of a genius boy Dad had taught in kindergarten who skipped first grade he was so smart and was, by then, already in high school and already had those knee-weakening sexy eyes. I practiced every afternoon on the new piano, which was in fact grand, much too grand for the tinkling little sounds I could produce on it. Late at night my sisters and I could spy from the banister of the front stairway and catch Mom and Dad dancing in the still-empty-except-for-the-piano living room and sometimes they made out, which made us feel weird but also safe. We got a stern housekeeper named Agnes and a stylish nanny named Gosia, because Mom was working even longer hours. We went to Europe for the last two weeks of summer for the first time, a new Avery tradition. When we returned, our old Subaru went to Gosia; Mom bought a black Jeep for Dad, and for herself a red Porsche.

  This summer we’re not going to Europe. Our housekeeper, Agnes, was fired one morning in May while we were in school, so we never got to say good-bye to her. Our nanny, Gosia, seeing the writing on the wall, got a different job that will start July 7. We’re spending the two weeks’ notice she gave us noticing her, saying good-bye to her. I’m not sure which way is worse but I think maybe the drawn-out version.