The Pink Sneakers Club. Christian Jr. Bertoni

clothes and other stuff Caren finally came back. When I got in the car I saw that she had been crying. I didn’t say anything. I figured if she wanted to talk she would. I left it alone. I had my own problems.

      “Thanks for picking me up.” I said.

      “Forget it. I could use the company.”

      “Mom out again?”

      “Yep.”

      We drove the rest of the way in silence.

      Deirdre

      Chapter 9

      Building a house on a slope is one of the many unique things about my house. It has an incredible view of the mountains from almost every window. Don’t get me wrong I thoroughly love this house from an architectural standpoint. For a girl growing up in here I absolutely hate it. The house is cold and not at all containing that homey feel.

      My house outside pushes the limits of architectural possibility of what some might see as an impossibly limiting site conditions. For example, there is an entrance at the top of the hill where you can make your way down through extensive layers of large concrete roofs. Each layered roof occupies multiple bedrooms and bathrooms all connecting to the large living room, dining room, kitchen and pantry area. Facing south, the experience is one of layered lights and views as you go down through each level.

      The roof of the house either dips below and or rises above the ground – conforming to the environment. The outdoor and indoor routes connect throughout the house, allowing you to move in and out of my house easily at various levels.

      I entered my house through the underground garage, walked up the oak wood spiral staircase to the kitchen.

      My mother was having her usual glass of white wine at the counter perusing over some contracts. My father was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. My parents, as cold as the house they built.

      My mother looked up from her contracts, always impeccably dressed. She had on a dark gray business suit with a white silk blouse. My mom’s got fascinatingly high cheekbones and firm lips pulled back slightly over rather ordinary teeth. Her light brown, pixie haircut always in place. Make-up never smudged, lipstick never smeared always as if she just put it on, a shade of bright red. Matched by her nail polish. She set her glasses on the counter, “where have you been young lady?” When my mother is in the mood to act motherly she calls me young lady. Nice.

      “I-I was at school.”

      “This whole time?” she looked at her watch, “it’s 5:30, school let’s out at 3:30-“

      “School lets out at 3:05 actually.”

      “Hey, don’t talk to your mother like that. Answer the question.” Ah, the bear raises his head from the paper. My father much like my mother was impeccably dressed. Clean cut, with an aquiline nose. He’s a lean and wiry man, large brown eyes, salt and pepper hair – more salt than pepper – eyebrows shaped in pointed arches.

      I lowered my head, “sorry.” I looked up, feeling my tears welling up again, “you didn’t hear?”

      “Hear what?” my mother asked irritated.

      “A girl jumped from the roof of the school. She landed not more than a few feet from me.” It was all I could do to control my voice. My parent’s motto, big girls don’t cry. So from an early age I was taught to bury my emotions.

      “Oh my God, are you all right?” My mother asked.

      “No. I-I . . .” The tears were coming again.

      “Honey.” My mother held out her arms.

      “Mom.” I was starting to cry, as I came in for that much needed hug, my mom quickly held my shoulders at arms length, rubbing them gently.

      “Sweetie, it’s all a part of life.”

      The gesture stopped me short. I didn’t know what to do or for that matter how to react. But one thing happened for sure I stopped crying in midstream. “Wh-what?”

      My dad got up, walked over to us and leaned in at the kitchen island like he was watching someone cook, “your mother’s right, Deirdre. It’s just a part of life.”

      What? A part of life? I would love to know what high school they went to. I couldn’t believe this. I-I was stunned. I just stood there and listened, not really knowing what to say.

      “These things happen,” my mother continued, “why I remember when I was a senior in high school there was a girl . . . her name was Janet . . . something . . . I can’t remember her last name. Anyway she dropped out of school three weeks before she was supposed to graduate. I think because she was pregnant. I don’t remember. Anyway the point is its high school. It happens.” She continued to rub my shoulders. “Listen, why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll fix you some tea. Okay?”

      What? If this were a T.V. show nobody would believe this. I just nodded.

      “Feel better, honey?” my dad asked.

      I felt like shouting NO you idiot! A girl dying isn’t the same thing as a girl dropping out of school. But I couldn’t bring my mouth to form the words. I just turned around like a coward and headed for my room on the third floor.