Читать книгу A Tragic Kind of Wonderful - Eric Lindstrom, Eric Lindstrom - Страница 12

HAMSTER IS RUNNING

HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED

HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING

HANNIGANIMAL IS LEVEL/MIXED

It’s dusk by the time I get home from Dr. Oswald’s office. Dad’s Mercedes is parked on the street. There’s plenty of room in the driveway next to Mom’s old Toyota but he and Mom aren’t together so their cars shouldn’t be together. Dad doesn’t like mixed messages. He hasn’t accepted that we’ve stopped listening to his messages, mixed or otherwise.

I open the front door and wheel my bike inside. I clatter more than necessary. Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table, probably wincing.

While I free my backpack from its bungee and take off my shoes and socks, I imagine a conversation we stopped repeating long ago, the one where he tells me bikes belong in the garage. I say it’s too much hassle. He says it’s more important to do things right. I ask him, what makes it right?

It’s an argument he can’t win—it’s not logical. He’s tried that route, too:

The tires are dirty because they touch the road (so do my shoes).…

The rubber marks the wood floor (so do my shoes).…

I shouldn’t wear shoes inside, either (I couldn’t give a shit and neither could Mom).…

I don’t think everything that happened with Nolan caused the divorce. Mom and Dad were shaky for years before it all blew up. It really came down to Dad thinking there were all kinds of rules about everything. Like you were supposed to wear socks in the house because shoes would scratch the wood floor, but skin oil from bare feet would ruin the finish (maybe in a thousand years). Mom and I couldn’t remember all this stuff, let alone do it right. Dad said there was no need to memorize anything because it was all intuitively obvious.

Not to us, so Dad left to find his true tribe. He’s still looking. We couldn’t afford to keep the house, even with alimony and child support on the first of every month without fail. I didn’t want to stay anyway. I’d withdrawn from everyone and everything by that point and was surrounded by bad memories. Even superpowers have limits.

As soon as I finished middle school, Mom and I moved a hundred miles across the bay here to Costa Vista, south of San Francisco, to the house where Mom grew up with its deeply scratched wood floors. Grandma Cece had previously moved into the Silver Sands Suites and was letting Aunt Joan live here rent-free.

Mom stirs two pots at the same time in the kitchen. She’s already changed out of work clothes and into baggy overalls, her thick auburn hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We wave to each other and I drop my backpack hard on the dining-room table. Dad’s mouth tightens.

“I’m not packed,” I say, though weekend packing takes five minutes max. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“Sorry, I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have to go to Monterey. Partners are flying up from LA.”

“I could go to the aquarium.”

“I’ll be busy from morning into the night both days.”

“That’s what the aquarium’s for.”

“Sorry, not this trip.”

I’m sorry, too. I can tell he means it, but I think if he really knew me, the fact that I wasn’t serious about the aquarium would be intuitively obvious.

“How’s school?”

I give him enough fuel to keep the conversation running. I know his motivational technique; he doesn’t express direct disappointment. He just sets the bar ten percent higher than wherever I am. I’m a solid B student, but if I got all As, I’d hear the same speeches about trying harder, applying myself more, taking my future seriously. In Dad’s world, potential is like a rainbow, this beautiful thing you should chase even though it always stays out of reach.

He leaves me and Mom to our penne with generic-brand marinara sauce and garlic bread that’s really toasted sandwich bread with butter and garlic salt. It’s what sent him on his way tonight. Not seeing what we were reduced to eating, but that it’s one of our favorite meals.

“Were his golf clubs in the car?” I ask Mom while we clear the dishes. “Monterey means Pebble Beach.”

“That’s really how they have meetings, you know.”

“Sounds like a wonderful life.”

Tires screech on the driveway. Time to brace for Hurricane Joan.

I wish Dad were still here for this.

* * *

I sit on the toilet lid, toes on the floor, bouncing my legs—my energy coming back—as I watch HJ lean into the mirror over the sink. She applies eyeliner fast enough to twist my gut, worried she’ll jab her eye.

Mom passes the bathroom door. “Joanie, if you use all the Q-tips, pick up some more while you’re out.” I know that’s never going to happen. Maybe Mom realizes this too, since she adds, “Or at least write it on the list.”

“Yes, Patricia.…” HJ tosses the eyeliner on a shelf, picks up a naked mascara wand, and knocks clutter around till she finds the tube. “Mel, please tell me you’ve got a date tonight. A pretty girl like you, it’s a waste to spend Friday night in this rat hole.”

“But it’s our rat hole.”

She starts in with the mascara. “Until Pats kicks me out. I’m a bad influence.”

“That’s not what Dad calls you—”

She laughs—it’s like a bark. “I’ll bet!”

“He says you’re an inappropriate role model.”

“He thinks I’m a role model? That’s sweet. Don’t change the subject. It’s Date Night!”

“You go out every night—”

“I mean for you, you’re in school—don’t distract me. Tonight is Date Night. If you don’t have one, get one. That’s my plan.”

“I have a date tonight.”

She stops to look at me, eyebrows raised.

“With my soul mate … Netflix.”

She grimaces. “I’ve failed as an inappropriate role model.”

My phone rings. Curious. Usually only Mom or Dad calls out of the blue.

It’s Annie again. I decline it again. Not going to think about that, not on a Friday night.

“Who was that?”

“Nobody. Wrong number.”

“If it’s an unknown number, maybe it’s a new guy from school calling. How can you know without answering?”

“I’m psychic.”

HJ finishes her eyes and grabs a different eyeliner pencil. This is my favorite part. She hates her freckles—or, quote, her “blotchy face”—except she has a bare patch under her left cheekbone the size of a dime. She draws fake freckles on it to blend it in. It’s both wonderful and tragic.

My phone burps.

“You’ve got to change that ringtone.”

“That’s what Holly would say if she knew I assigned it to her.” I tap the screen to read her text.

Busy?

“You’re popular tonight,” HJ says. “Is it a boy?”

“I don’t know any boys.”

I text back:

Kinda.

Burp:

Important?

With Hurricane Joan.

Almost done. What’s up?

Burp:

Movie Roulette. You in?

“Please, Mel. It’s disgusting.”

I switch it to vibrate and then text:

Not sure I feel like being

a third wheel tonight.

We want you to come. Bring someone if you want. Or we can find you someone! ;)

Ha! Don’t you dare. I’ll go if it’s

just us three. We’ll need a ride.

Got it covered. :)

I sigh.

I’m not bringing bail money.

See you in twenty.

“There,” I say to HJ. “Happy? I’m going out with friends. Friday Night Binge with my One True Love is postponed.”

“Just friends, huh? It’s a start.” She stands tall and faces me, head cocked to the left, chin up—she knows her good angles. “Verdict?”

I smile. “Amazing. The world is not prepared.”

“Damn right, it’s not. I’m going to reel in a good one tonight, you’ll see.”

I gesture vaguely. “Especially if you go out in just the bra and panties.”

She puts her hands on her hips and winks. “Plan B.”

As we head out of the bathroom, my phone vibrates again. A text from Annie this time.

You home? I’m out front.

Huh? I open the door and peek out. A gleaming white car, something fancy, is parked facing the wrong way at the curb. I see silhouettes of people behind tinted windows.

The car’s front passenger door opens. Annie appears.

Her sense of style has grown up some but still includes buttoned collared shirts and the French braid she’s always worn.

She says, “You didn’t call me back.”

Does she think her disappointed tone means something to me? Or does she not even know she does it?

My heart’s pounding anyway. Not from her tone, but from her being here at all. It can’t be good. She walks to the trunk as it slowly opens with a hiss.

I step out onto the porch. “What do you want?”

Annie picks up a cardboard box the size of a microwave, and then she closes the trunk gracefully with one hand. She walks along the sidewalk and up to meet me without cutting across the grass. She doesn’t look remotely sick. She looks done up—beautiful, even. But supposedly so was Lucifer.

“I have something to give you before we leave town.”

“To Connecticut?”

I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell her I know this. I’ve never liked how competitive she is, or how competitive I sometimes became when around her.

“Paris.” She smiles.

She doesn’t sound sarcastic. It seems like one of her self-important pronouncements.

“Why’d you tell Zumi and Connor you were going to your uncle’s?”

“We are, until we find our own place. He lives in Paris now.”

“Your own place? You’re not coming back?”

Annie holds out the box. “Here.”

I cross my arms. “What’s in it?”

“Mostly Zumi’s stuff. Some of Connor’s.”

A loud hum from the car makes me jump. The driver’s window lowers two inches.

“Annie,” her mom says impatiently.

The window slides closed again. The skin down my neck and back tightens.

Annie rattles the box. “Are you going to take this?”

“Why don’t you give it to them?”

She sighs and sets it down on the porch.

I get it. Annie lied about being sick to keep Zumi and Connor away, so they wouldn’t see her family packing. It strikes me that Annie and I have both lied to them about being sick in order to hide something.

I say, “You’re not going to tell Zumi?”

Annie’s eyes roll. It’s genuine and crude—not one of her poised, choreographed looks. Then she walks backward toward the car and points at the box. “She can sort out what’s hers and what’s Connor’s.”

Something about this doesn’t add up.

I drop my arms. “Why didn’t you just mail this?”

“I thought you and I could be friends again someday. When we grew up. After everything blew over. Maybe we still can?”

She looks for something in my eyes. Whatever it is, she’s not going to find it. I’m not her minion anymore. I wouldn’t follow her if I was lost and she knew the way to heaven.

“Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she says, pouting her lips. It almost seems sincere. Then she shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

“So …” I say, trying to wrap my head around this. “You’re just leaving?”

Annie cocks her head. “Already sold the house.” She pats the hood of the car. “And the Beamer. All we have to do is drop it off. Plane leaves in three hours.”

“You have to at least say good-bye—”

“I am saying good-bye—”

“To someone who cares. You …” I swallow. “You know how Zumi feels about you.”

Annie shrugs. “I know how I feel about her.”

I clench my fists. “God, you’re unbelievable. What would it cost you to tell her you’re sorry you have to go?”

“Wow, Mel … it’s been a while since I’ve seen you this worked up. Don’t waste it trying to protect someone you’re not friends with anymore. Someone who hates you.”

Annie opens the car door.

I step down off the porch. “You really came here thinking … what? That I’d want to see you again? You don’t care about anybody. At least now Zumi will finally believe it.”

“She’ll get over it. You did. Au revoir.”

The instant she closes the door, the car accelerates away and turns the corner without slowing at the stop sign.

I sit down hard on the porch next to the box. I can’t look at it.

Ten minutes later the front door opens.

“Mel?” HJ says. “Something wrong?”

Only that I gave away Zumi, my best friend, to someone she wanted more, walked away, watched the bridges burn, and now it was all for nothing.

“Mel?”

I can’t explain it. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know where to begin.