“What? I’m being honest.”
“When was the last time you had a panic thing?” Meghan asked. “ ’Cause I haven’t seen or heard you talk about one since, like, the start of the summer.”
“I have them—” I was about to say I had them all the time. But she was right.
I hadn’t had one.
Not when Noel and I fought.
Not when he fell down the stairs.
Not when he ignored me at school.
Or kissed that girl.
Not when Dad lay on the floor. And Mom left.
I had not panicked.
Sometimes I had to sing retro metal in my head and breathe deep, or take off my glasses and be semi-blind, or cut class and take a shower—but I hadn’t had a panic thing in a very long time.
Shocking Disclosure in the Zoological Gardens!
Dear Robespierre,
Happy Thanksgiving.
I wonder if goats feel neurotic on holidays, like people do. When I was little, Thanksgiving and Christmas were just parties and pretty dresses and desserts. Then last year, I realized what a drunk Uncle Hanson is, and how stressed Dad and Grandma Suzette were. Suddenly, it wasn’t a party. It was an ordeal.
This year, I’m worried Dad will melt down again and start talking about his dead mother, just when he’s started to get up in the mornings and work on his newsletter. Also Uncle Hanson will be there and no Grandma Suzette to make jokes and encourage him to act normal. Plus Mom is making a turducken1, and there’s nothing like a big meat-eating holiday to make her mad that I don’t eat what she cooks. So it’ll be a miracle if we make it through Thanksgiving without a descent into seriously bad family dynamics.
Wish me luck.
Love,
Ruby Oliver
—written on zoo stationery with a ballpoint pen and folded into a small rectangle.
my mother came home with gifts. A T- shirt for my dad that said DOG IS MY COPILOT and a vintage dress for me.
It fit, too.
I was angry at her for leaving, but I also had to admit that it had been good to have her gone. Good for me and Dad to just take care of ourselves, even if we did it badly. Good for us to hang around together without her giant personality heaving itself between us. She came back full of ideas for the new show she wanted to do, plans for the holiday season, stories about her adventures with Juana and the women’s empowerment group. She was less on the attack, somehow.
I worked at the zoo the weekend before Thanksgiving, mucking out stalls in the Family Farm area early on Sunday morning. When I finished that, I went to help Lewis the plant guy trim some hedges. Perversely, though I complain about helping Dad in the greenhouse, I like trimming hedges. The clippers are really big. I feel tough hacking stray bits of greenery into submission.
I was chopping away and not thinking about anything when suddenly two sets of round arms wrapped themselves around my waist: Sydonie and Marie. “We’re at the zoo! We saw the elephant already,” cried Marie.
“Claude didn’t know where the bathrooms were,” said Sydonie. “I had to show him.”
“Is Noel with you?” I asked, nervous.
“No, Claude! Didn’t you hear me? Of course
I looked up and there was Claude, looking like Noel, only with dark hair and broad shoulders. Same delicate profile, same pale eyes. He was dressed in blue striped pants and a red cashmere sweater—vaguely nautical and a touch flamboyant. “They know you, apparently,” he said.
“Um. Yes.”
“It’s Ruby!” shouted Marie.
“Noelie’s girlfriend!” shouted Sydonie.
Claude’s eyes widened. “You’re Ruby?”
I felt like I must be a disappointment. I was wearing an ugly zoo uniform and no makeup.
“I’m not Noel’s girlfriend,” I told Sydonie. “Not anymore.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“The picture he drew of you is still up in his room.”
Was it? Was it, really?
“That’s just because he hasn’t bothered to take it down,” I said. “Not because I’m his girlfriend.” I turned to Claude. “It’s good to meet you. I mean, we were at Tate together, but you wouldn’t remember,” I stumbled. “Noel told me a lot about you.”
