Zen and Xander Undone

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The First Letter

  Frank

  Mom

  Salt and Sugar

  Xander’s List

  Mother’s Day

  Blackstone Legal

  The Statue

  Mom and Dad

  The Dress and My Back

  Pain

  Railroad

  Nancy

  Dojo

  Getting Ready

  Prom

  Xander’s Bar

  Aunt Doris

  Getting High with Xander

  After Toking

  Waffles and Letters

  Dartmouth

  Pretenses

  Paul

  The Phone Call

  Xander’s Birthday

  The Party

  The Same Mistakes

  The Other Party

  The Aftermath

  Lecture from Mom

  Indecent Exposure

  The Wee Hours

  Phillips

  Who She Loved More

  Dinner in a Tacky Hotel

  The Last Day

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2010 by Amy Kathleen Ryan

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Ryan, Amy Kathleen.

  Zen and Xander undone / by Amy Kathleen Ryan.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Two teenage sisters try to come to terms with the death of their mother in very different ways.

  ISBN 978-0-547-06248-8

  [1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Grief—Fiction. 3. Death—Fiction. 4. Family problems—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.R9476Ze 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2009049702

  eISBN 978-0-547-48807-3

  v2.0514

  FOR MY BROTHER, MICHAEL

  The First Letter

  MY SISTER, XANDER, causes a scandal practically everywhere she goes. Even funeral receptions, I now know.

  I’m the quiet one. I spent the whole time wandering around our house, kind of dazed, an overwarm glass of lemonade clenched in my hand. Never much at ease around a bunch of people, I tried to go unseen, unnoticed, as I watched the guests serve themselves cake, or more wine, whispering together over some anecdote about Mom. As if they really knew her.

  I had to admit, Grandma knew how to throw a proper funeral. She had hung huge family portraits around our living room, pictures of Xander and me with Mom and Dad at the beach, on Thanksgiving, and at the dinner we threw celebrating Dad’s tenure. That was my favorite, because it captured Mom laughing, her blond head thrown back, her mouth wide, eyes screwed shut, cheeks red.

  Over the archway between the living room and dining room Grandma had hung a huge banner that said, in big, scrolled letters, BON VOYAGE, MARIE. She’d chosen quivering violin music to play over the stereo, and she’d gotten the best caterer in town to serve dim sum, cold sesame noodles, stir-fried vegetables, and some kind of chicken kebab with a mysterious sauce that seemed to separate the moment it hit your plate.

  People kept coming at me, hugging me, rubbing my back. I wanted to scream.

  Xander never had much problem letting loose. She and Adam were both drunk from the bottle of wine they’d stolen. They were sitting on the floor in the sunroom, Adam’s tie loose around his neck, Xander’s fine blond hair in her eyes. She had taken off her black heels to wriggle her toes. Her dress was hiked up above her knees, and she twisted the ball of her foot into the floor, staring into space as Adam whispered in her ear.

  I wove through the crowd. Aunt Doris and Nancy, Mom’s best friend, were huddled over a photo album. Doris was pointing out a picture of Mom from grade school. Mom’s two front teeth were missing, and apparently she used to do some trick with her tongue while Doris sang a song about a little worm coming out of its hole. “If we tried it now,” Doris said, “it would be positively lewd.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but it made both of them cry.

  Through the screen door I watched Dad sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoking, and it was strange watching him because he was an expert at it. He sucked the blue smoke into his mouth, let it hang between his lips in a compact cloud before pulling it all the way in. His boss, the chair of the English department, was sitting with his hand on his shoulder, telling him to take some time off. “You’ve been wanting to write your next book for ages, James,” he said through ridiculously chapped lips. “Take next year. Mason can cover the Romantics, and we’ll put some grad students on your intro courses.”

  Dad nodded, took another mouthful of smoke, held it, held, and released.

  I felt a presence behind me and turned to see Grandma standing uncomfortably close. “Well, I think this has been a success,” she said. “Just the way Marie wanted it. Not too gloomy.”

  “Whoopee.”

  “You should mingle,” she told me. “Some of these people drove for hours to get here.”

  “I don’t like parties.”

  “You call this a party?”

  “What else is it? People are drunk.”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  “No, of course not, why would you?” I spat. I didn’t care about hiding my dislike for her. Not today.

  “Don’t be nasty, Athena,” she said.

  “It’s Zen, Grandma. I’ve been Zen for years.”

  Her bloodshot eyes traveled to the corner where Xander and Adam were sitting. Xander had closed her eyes and was leaning her head back against the windowsill. Adam stared at her, fascination pulling his lightweight frame toward her while something else held him back. Grandma cleared her throat. “A letter came in the mail yesterday, for you and Xander. I found it in your father’s bills.”

  “Put it with the other cards.”

  “No. You should see it. Go get Alexandra.”

  “Grandma—” I started to protest, but she held up a hand.

  “Go. Get. Her.” Her wrinkled lips pressed together.

  I marched toward Xander, as much to get away from Grandma as to obey. “We’re being summoned,” I said to her.

  Xander’s dark eyes shifted from me to Grandma, who was standing in the middle of the room, her arms folded over her skinny frame. “What does she want?”

  “She said a letter came for us.”

  “Ack.” Xander rolled her eyes. “Tell the Droning Crone to—”

  “You tell her,” I said, and marched off to the kitchen to throw out the lemonade and pour myself some Coke instead.

  I’d barely had a chance to rinse my glass before Grandma came barreling into the kitchen, pulling Xander by her wrist. Xander stumbled after her, her face curdled and pouty. “I don’t see why it can’t wait!”

  Grandma went to the pile of unopened mail that sat on the ceramic tiled counter, shuffled through it, and pulled out one thin envelope. “I think you’ll want to see this,” she said triumphantly.

  Xander glanced at it, squinted, peering at the address. “Zen,” she said, her voice urgent.

  I took the envelope from Grandma. It was addressed to both Xander and me in Mom’s uneven, sloping handwriting.

  Xander whipped it out of my hands and tore it open.

  “Be careful!” I yelled, afraid she might rip whatever was inside.

  Xander unfolded a single piece of Mom’s light
blue stationery and read it in one great gulp. I tugged the corner of the paper closer and read over her shoulder.

  Dear Hellions,

  I suppose I owe you an apology for dying on you before you’re all the way grown up. I hate leaving a job unfinished. With that in mind, I’ve been writing you both lots of letters, and have arranged with someone to send these letters on special days for the next few years. The identity of this person will be kept secret because I don’t want you calling up, pestering to get all your letters at once. (This means you, Xander.) There won’t be much of me left on this earth for you. What there is, I want to last.

  Don’t feel sorry for me. And don’t let anyone feel sorry for you. Pity will just make you both feel weak, and you need to be strong. Cry as much as you want, but no pity, self or other.

  Even though this is the first letter you’re getting from me, it’s the last one I’m writing. That’s because I’ve been trying to think of something wise to say. The problem is, now that I’ve had time to ponder the great beyond, I’ve grown to realize how overrated wisdom is. Or at least, I’ve become wary of people who pretend to have it. So, I guess that’s my advice to you. The second someone pretends to be wise, run. But do listen to the people who care about you. They’re the ones who will steer you right. Listen to each other.

  Always remember how much I love you, and how much you’ve meant to me. Zen, you’re my little chickadee, and Xander, you’re my jaybird. Chase away the crows for each other, girls, and keep your nest warm.

  Remember me,

  Mom

  As I read the last words, Xander slammed out the back door, ran to Mom’s shriveled strawberry patch, and started screaming every obscenity known to humankind at the cloudy sky above. The party quieted down as people listened to her, shocked.

  Grandma started to go after her, but I pushed her aside, ran down the steps and across the overgrown grass. Xander was twirling around, screaming such a streak of blue language that even I felt the need to shut her up.

  “Xander, for God’s sake!” I yelled at her.

  She stopped twirling and faced me, a crooked grin on her lips. “That felt good.”

  “It didn’t sound good,” I spat.

  “Come on,” she said, pinching my shoulder. “Try it.”

  “No.”

  “Try a simple one to start with, then you can work your way up to the big ones. Say ass.”

  “You’re an ass, Xander.”

  She nodded, her pointer finger pressed against her chin as though she were a diction teacher. “I like your passion. Now try shit.”

  “You’re a shithead, Xander,” I said, my voice grim.

  She looked at me, but neither of us could keep a straight face, and she dissolved into a goofy grin. “You’re a quick study. Twat-face.”

  This made me laugh.

  For the next hour we traded increasingly disgusting insults complete with bodily fluids and illegal sex acts, laughing maniacally until people finally went home. Now that I think about it, the scandal that day wasn’t all Xander’s.

  That night Xander and I slept in the same bed, Mom’s pillow wedged between us. We slept like that every night until Mom’s pillow stopped smelling like her and started smelling like us.

  That’s when the Vogel sisters went our separate ways. I threw myself into shotokan training with a kind of furious commitment, and Xander—well, she just got furious.

  Frank

  YOU DEVELOP DEFENSES.

  Like, whenever someone tells me how sorry they are that Mom died, I always say, “Oh, that’s okay. She was a pain in the ass anyway.”

  This is how I sort people out now. The people who laugh are cool. The people who are shocked might turn out to be cool, or they might not. The people who get offended always turn out to be uptight jerks.

  It’s true that Mom was a pain in the ass, but she was the kind of pain you get used to, like sore muscles after karate practice, or the burn when you’re sinking into a hot bath. Mom was a good pain. Losing her—not so much.

  Lately Xander is also a pain, but there’s nothing good about it. Tonight she left the house wearing her tank top with rhinestones on the spaghetti straps, her studded belt, and her “man-getting jeans,” which are ripped in all the most strategic places. If ever there was an outfit for creating trouble, she’s wearing it now. And since, naturally, it’s a Friday night and I don’t have anything to do, I’m sitting up in Mom’s old bedroom like a stupid jerk, drinking my mint tea and listening for Xander to come home. I don’t know why I do this.

  It’s not all bad. The crickets are chirping, and my tea is warm and sweet with honey, and my legs have that nice used feeling they get after I do my two hundred kicks. My back is sore, but I rubbed Tiger Balm on it and it’s starting to feel better. I overdid the punching tonight, but I even like how that feels. Shotokan makes me strong.

  I glance through my trigonometry textbook once more for my final on Monday. All that’s left is a few papers to write and the school year is done. Then summertime. My last summer with Xander and Adam.

  Through the open window, I hear a car door slam, then another. I freeze, holding my mug to my chest. Xander laughs in that mean way she does, and she says, “I didn’t invite you in!”

  Some guy mutters a low, angry sweet talk. I don’t like the way it sounds.

  She giggles again. “I think you’ve had enough, Hank.”

  “Frank,” he says.

  “Whatever. Good night.” Silence for a second, but then I hear her voice hit a surprised register, as if she’s been hit from behind.

  I’ve pounded down the stairs and am almost to the front door when I hear her trying to reason with him. “Come on. I’m jailbait, you said so yourself. And it’s past my bedtime.”

  “I’ll let you go if you give me one more kiss.”

  I open the door to find Xander in the arms of a guy I’ve never seen before. He has a tattoo on his forearm that says “Christ is King” in scrolling letters drawn to look like a crown of thorns. He’s wearing a black leather vest and ripped-up blue jeans. He doesn’t see me because he’s leaning in to Xander’s hair to smell it, his finger snaking through a hole in her jeans. Xander is turned away from him, her face scrunched up in disgust. She sees me and rolls her eyes. “You’re really pathetic, Hank, you know that?”

  “It’s Frank. Why are you trying to piss me off?” He’s pretending to be amused, but I can tell he’s angry.

  “Why won’t you let me go in my house?” she asks, enunciating every word like she’s talking to someone who barely speaks English.

  Frank finally notices me, and freezes for a second. Now that he’s looking at me, I can see he’s not that cute. He has a hooked nose and a goatee. His bottom lip has a sharp steel stud in it, but the piercing looks angry and red. He seems to register how young I look, and relaxes. “Don’t worry, honey, she’s fine,” he says to me.

  He laughs a little, and I can see by the porch light that his teeth are crooked, and even from where I stand his breath smells as though he hasn’t brushed his teeth in recent memory. The guys Xander chooses!

  Or maybe they choose her.

  “I’m not moving until you let her go,” I tell him.

  “Well, then I guess we’ll have to leave,” he says, and pulls Xander back toward his car, murmuring in her ear as if she’s an animal he needs to keep calm.

  “Let me go right now!” Xander yells. She has finally stopped kidding around. I watch her prepare the move I taught her. She pulls her knee up to her chest, but she’s gone too high. She misses stomping his foot by inches, and jams her ankle instead. She cries out in pain as he pulls her backwards, laughing. He thinks this is a game.

  Does Xander? I can’t tell.

  The way he drags her fills me with a rage so hot, I can feel my brains simmering. As I’ve been trained, I walk across the lawn, keeping my gait steady and my eyes on my target until I’m within striking distance.

  Xander sees me coming, and chides, “Oh ho, H
ank, you’re in for it now!”

  He scoffs at her.

  Xander ducks.

  My roundhouse kick to his temple makes a cracking sound so loud, the crickets shut up for a second. He’s stunned, and lets go of Xander, shaking his head like he has water in his ears.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Xander yells. She backs away from him, but stays nearby so she can get a good view.

  “Who did that?” Frank tries to focus on me, but he can’t believe that a skinny teenage girl just knocked his block off.

  “Jesus, Hank, she must have killed one of your two brain cells,” Xander says, and giggles.

  A light comes on across the street—Adam’s bedroom. Xander pretends not to notice, but I can see her get a little more serious.

  Frank swings around and looks at me again. “What the hell was that?” He’s obviously still stunned, because he’s not thinking clearly. Or maybe he’s just a moron.

  “Frank,” I say as I assume strike pose, fists raised. A sore muscle in my back screams, but I don’t show my pain. “Drive away in your car, or ride away in an ambulance. Your choice.”

  He sways on his feet, seeming to consider my offer. His knees buckle suddenly, and he has to lean against his car.

  Adam comes out of his house in his pajama bottoms, holding his aluminum baseball bat. He stares at Frank like every muscle in his body wants to bash the guy’s brains in and the only thing keeping him in check is a weak hold on common sense.

  Frank sees Adam and his bat, and seems to rethink the situation.

  “All right, I’m leaving,” Frank finally says, turning, and without looking at Xander, mutters, “Little whore.”

  “Oh, well, that’s it, Hank,” she says. “You’ll never get my phone number now.”

  He mutters even nastier insults as he slowly works his way around his big rusty car and climbs in the driver’s side. He sits there for a second, probably waiting for the street to stop spinning, starts his engine, and drives away.