The Throwback List

by Lily Anderson

  “That would be nice. It’s been a long time since we had company.”

  Bee stopped laboriously typing into the search bar. “That’s not true. Autumn comes over every week. Flo sometimes, too.”

  “One or two people, but no parties,” Lita said with a dismissive twitch of her chin. “Not like the big bonfire on the beach!”

  “That was to say goodbye to Jo,” Bee reminded her.

  “That is not the only reason to have a party! We used to have friends over every weekend, your Tito and I. Noisy parties in the backyard. I think the neighbors did not like us so much then. That was before Phil and Deb. Before you, even. Your mother would dance on the tables and make everybody laugh. She was wild!”

  “She’s still wild, Lita,” Bee said.

  “She’s young and in love,” Lita said with a shrug. “Maybe not that young. But in love. She’ll come back when she gets bored. People always do.”

  Bee was sure Lita was right. Any day now, Bonnie would appear at the shop or in Bee’s texts or at the front door with a box of doughnuts. Maybe she would bring with her the family that Tony already had. Maybe she would successfully wring the attention out of them that she could never seem to find at home.

  “We’ll work on having more people over,” Bee promised Lita, programming The Real Bitches to record.

  “Invite my Cruz,” Lita said. “I’m worried about him living over a bar. It’s not good for him to be tempted like that.”

  “I will invite Cruz,” Bee promised. “But whenever we have people over, all you have to do is tell me you want everyone out and we’re done.”

  Lita frowned at her. “That would be rude, muñeca. You can’t invite people over and then kick them out.”

  “We can if you don’t feel well.”

  “If I don’t feel well, the world doesn’t stop.”

  “But it could.”

  “What then? You’re going to hang the moon on my ceiling?”

  “If you wanted.”

  Bee picked up Lita’s hand. Bonnie was normally in charge of taking Lita for manicures. Without her, Lita’s nails were unpainted and uneven. The cinnamon-brown skin around her knuckles was rough and cracked. Bee found a tube of hand cream and massaged it into Lita’s arthritic fingers.

  “When I first came home you were so sick,” she said to the palm of Lita’s right hand. “We were doing physical therapy every day, remember?”

  “Ay, don’t remind me,” Lita groaned. “I never want to do PT again. It was torture.”

  Relearning to walk, to speak, to think. Bianca tried her best to keep her thoughts out of that time, away from the Lita so frail that she was almost a stranger. They had been so close to losing her so shortly after Tito. Sometimes it felt like they’d been in free fall since, waiting to crash.

  “But you got better,” Bee said. She rubbed lotion into Lita’s other hand, taking care around the gold band of her wedding ring.

  “I got better,” Lita agreed.

  “But not younger.”

  “No one gets younger, Bianca.”

  “Tell that to J.Lo.”

  “You know I would. I have words for that girl.”

  “Ask her how she keeps her skin so nice. I’m starting to wrinkle.”

  “My baby? Never.” The tip of her nose pressed to the curve of Bee’s temple.

  They sat in silence, curled together, hands between them like little girls with a secret to share. Bee could feel how thin Lita’s skin was, how close to the surface her pulse.

  “Lita, what would you think about being a bisabuela?” Bianca asked, too scared to move, to see the truth in Lita’s eyes. “Realistically. Sharing the house with a baby. Sharing attention with a baby. Being around a baby day in and day out.”

  “Is that why you are in such a hurry to go to Hawaii? So you can have time to get pregnant?”

  Bee laughed. “No! Going on vacation is about sleeping in and having nicer weather. This is me asking you if you think you could handle living in a house with an infant. Again. You’ve already gone through it with Mom and then with me. Do you want to go through it a third time?”

  “If you and Birdy want a baby.”

  Bee pulled back, holding firm to Lita’s hands, squeezing them in emphasis. “This house has three adults in it. You get a vote. Not the biggest vote. You don’t have veto power on everything. But a baby is officially on the table for discussion, so if you have concerns, I need to know them now. Not later. Not when I’m stroller shopping. Will you think about it for me? Maybe make a list?”

  “A list of complaints.” Lita grinned, her eyes disappearing into her cheeks. “I will write complaints for you all day. In many languages.”

  “I can always count on you.”

  Lita stamped a kiss to her temple. “Always, my girl.”

  AUTUMN

  Pausing behind the closed door of her empty classroom, Autumn gave herself last looks. Smoothing the sides of her cardigan, she wished again that she had a button-down shirt or jacket to make her appear more professional. The blazer her mom had bought her for her initial Point High job interview had been hopelessly wrinkled when she found it at the bottom of her dresser last night.

  But she was trying. That had to count for something.

  The clock above her makeshift desk turned to seven thirty, marking the beginning of official working hours.

  Autumn left her classroom, reciting her list of talking points in her head.

  Engagement. Encouragement. Enrichment.

  Pulse leaping and fighting the sudden urge to pee—a common reaction to stage fright—she waited until she saw Wren Vos go into the staff lounge and then marched inside.

  Before the school was remodeled in the seventies, the staff lounge had been a home ec. classroom. One wall retained the built-in stoves and faded yellow cabinets. At the line of coffeemakers and teakettles, Wren stirred oat milk into her travel mug.

  More importantly, Pat was not in the room.

  With a confident spine and steady voice, Autumn said, “Good morning, Wren!”

  Wren’s icy stare was twice as intimidating coming at her sideways. “Oh. Are you done avoiding me?”

  “I haven’t been avoiding you!” Autumn lied. “I’ve been riding my bike instead of coming in with my brother, so I don’t have to be here as early. The weather’s been nice.”

  Wren turned around and folded her arms in a movement so swift Autumn wondered if it was a rehearsed bit of principal-ing. “You want me to believe that it is pure coincidence that when I stopped seeing your friend, you stopped meeting me for coffee in the morning?”

  “Not pure coincidence, I guess,” Autumn admitted. “But not purely planned?”

  Autumn had been avoiding the awkwardness more than she had been avoiding Wren directly.

  “I’m sorry if you felt like me and Johanna not working out was a reflection on your idea to bring us back together,” Wren said, focusing her attention back on dressing her coffee. “I wouldn’t have agreed to date her again if I thought it would complicate our working relationship. I hope you understand.”

  “I don’t get it,” Autumn admitted. “You lit up when you were talking about Jo!”

  “I don’t like a lot of people, but I’ve always liked her,” Wren said, with a wrinkle in her forehead that very nearly spelled out the word duh. “But I miscalculated how sustainable that would be. I probably could have just tried knowing her again, but…Well, she’s also still the first girl I ever loved. And she’s so hot.”

  Autumn let out a surprised giggle. “I mean, the chemistry between you two is enviable.”

  “Oh?” Wren cocked an eyebrow, then lowered it after a second thought. “Well, it turns out that chemistry alone doesn’t make a team. But I’m glad we tried again. I always wondered about her. About what could have been.”

  “Then I’m glad that I helped you answer that question,” Autumn said. Then, remembering herself, she straightened up and pressed the buttons of her cardigan flat against he
r stomach. “Do you have a second to talk about raising the level of student engagement in the drama program?”

  Wren cocked her head and blinked at the subject change. A piece of blond hair fell across her forehead, bisecting the suspicious wrinkle between her fair brows.

  “I can find a second,” she said. She screwed the top on her coffee cup and stowed the oat milk back in the fridge. “It’ll have to be a walk-and-talk. I’m on my way to an IEP meeting.”

  “Great.” Autumn jumped to fall into step beside Wren, making sure to start on the same foot. Mirroring people made them trust you more. It proved you were paying attention to them. “What do you think of a schoolwide vote for the fall musical? Four available shows, age appropriate, no write-ins.”

  “What will it accomplish?” Wren asked, making a show of adjusting the strap of her leather messenger bag. No doubt it was full of important paperwork, but Autumn couldn’t help but remember the beat-up army surplus bag Wren had worn slung across her chest back when they were both students. It had been covered in buttons for bands Autumn still wasn’t cool enough to have heard of.

  “I want the drama program to feel more supported by their peers,” Autumn said, galloping to keep up. “If the whole school has a say in the musical, they’ll be more inclined to see and audition for the show.” She was talking too fast. Another rookie mistake. She had performed in front hundreds of kids on field trips, elderly people eating spaghetti, and at bars where people did not want to see improv comedy. She could certainly perform to an audience of one. “Normally the fall musical is only open to students who are enrolled in a drama class. Mr. Hearn thought it was the only way to guarantee a full-size cast. But I would like to do a musical that is open to any Point High student as long as they agree to fund-raise a certain amount for the rights to the musical. That way, there’s a lot of talk about the show during auditions, during the fund-raiser, and leading up to the weekend of performances. It pays for itself.”

  Out of talking points, Autumn was starting to panic about which building Wren’s meeting was in. Point High wasn’t huge and they had already passed the library. Wren continued at a brisk stride.

  “I need a chance to build a new program. From scratch,” Autumn blurted. “And, honestly? I really, really do not want to co-direct a play for children about bullying with Pat Markey. If it had been pitched in my job interview, I wouldn’t have taken the job.”

  Wren hissed. Autumn had never heard the vice principal have a giggle fit before. She would have remembered that it was sort of…goofy. Wren Vos had a laugh like a squeaky toy. Who knew Wren Vos had a laugh?

  “Give me four shows that you can get cleared by the PTA and we’ll take it to the next meeting,” Wren said. “Unless you already have a fund-raiser in mind?”

  Autumn shook her head. “N-no. Cookie dough sales are always popular.”

  “Once we get the okay from the PTA, you can put the vote out to homerooms,” Wren said with a decisive nod. “Nice initiative, Kelly. Bring me more stuff like this and you’re looking at a promotion.” When Autumn looked confused, Wren explained, “I’m kidding? We don’t work at a nineteen forties newspaper. But I like the idea of giving the students a vote. High school should spend more time modeling itself after democracy than prison. Mark the email urgent for me.”

  Elated, but playing it cool, Autumn nodded back. “You got it, Boss.”

  “Not your boss,” Wren said.

  “Not a newsie either, but we’ve got a bit now.”

  “A bit. I like it.” A sliver of Wren’s teeth appeared between her lips, the breath of a smile. “If you’re going to secede from Pat, we should look at getting your classroom moved. You don’t want to have to hear her railing ‘howl, howl, howl, howl’ against you.”

  Autumn laughed. “Was that a King Lear reference?”

  “I taught it in AP English for two years.”

  “No way, I played Regan in college!”

  “This is my meeting.” Wren came to an abrupt stop in front of the conference room. With her hand on the handle, she turned back to Autumn. She cleared her throat, made clear eye contact, and held out a hand to shake. “Good walk-and-talk, Autumn.”

  “We should meet like this more often!” Autumn smiled as Wren disappeared into the conference room.

  The Broadway Club was going to be so proud of her.

  JO

  At any of the jobs she’d had in Silicon Valley, Jo never once found herself looking forward to a team-building day, but her new job hadn’t given her much time with her fellow sales reps. They only saw one another at a weekly briefing in the cramped conference room attached to Rachel’s cowork building. Jo had missed last month’s team building—it had been scheduled for the day she moved to town.

  Jo was praying that today’s diversion would be more fun than her new normal of sucking up to bar managers and wearing either a black or white Nicotera Spirits polo every day—she had not yet earned the blue one. The polos worked on some kind of karate-belt ranking system that she hadn’t bothered to memorize.

  She could use something entertaining that wasn’t texting. She was tired of living inside her phone.

  Circling the block in figure eights, Jo ended up parking her Mini in front of a meter and running up four blocks to the gym that was too exclusive to show up on her Gym Class app. Her bag flopped behind her, water bottle banging against the side of her camera bag.

  Her new bangs slipped into her eyes. Not pinning them back had been a mistake. Cutting them had probably been a mistake, but she was trying to embrace them and move on. At least until they were long enough to pin back.

  Rachel’s gym had just as many spa packages as workout classes. The interior had club lighting, too dark and moody to be practical for the person behind the desk. Jo checked in under Nicotera Spirits and was pointed to the third door on the left.

  Most of the sales team were already present, standing in their workout gear inside a dance studio that was at once dark and neon, the way that try-hard spin studios in Silicon Valley had been. It was surprisingly tight quarters, with hardly room enough for the liquor reps and their designer bags.

  The other reps were mostly white, thin, and fresh out of college. Jo was the oldest person in the room aside from Rachel and possibly the dance instructor.

  Jo hated that she noticed. She was twenty-six—and a half. Was she supposed to stop counting the halves? If every Nicotera rep in the room stayed with the company from today until retirement, they all had over thirty years left. At the end, they would bake going-away cakes for one another and forget who went blue first.

  Well. Not Larisa. Jo got the feeling that girl who prided herself on being top sales every week would take all this shit to her grave. A real Jen G type, Larisa had been the only rep who had made sure Jo remembered her name with a too-tight handshake and the collar of her blue polo popped.

  “I hear we have some folks who like to drink in here!” said the instructor, very much misrepresenting the liquor reps’ relationship to their product. Jo’s coworkers whooped in response—so maybe not. Music cued up, surprising Jo with the shrill synthesizers of party-rocking.

  “Oh my God, I have not heard this since the seventh-grade dance,” gushed one of the reps.

  Jo had been at homecoming the year this song came out. Post-Wren, the first time. The year she and Autumn went in matching suits and pretended to be spies in order to kill the crushing boredom of not having dates.

  With less than six of them in the room, it was hard to establish a front and back row, but Jo somehow managed to be teacher’s-pet close. She tried not to worry about it, to focus on the steps being presented at top speed. She checked Rachel’s progress and found her team leader leaning against a wall, answering a text, then waving and mouthing an excuse under the music and making her way to the door.

  “Keep the energy up, everybody!” the instructor said, eyes frantic as the reps around Jo started to peter out, unwatched. “You’re getting the hang of it now! Let�
��s take it from the top, okay?” She started the song from the top. “Kick, kick, knee, knee! You got this! Elbows up!”

  Beside her, Jo’s coworkers were taking turns recording each other.

  “It’s too dark in here. It’s making my video grainy.”

  “Wait, no, show me doing the spin!”

  As Jo bounced higher, a phone screen came into her view.

  “Jo, you’re the queen of Instagram, aren’t you?” asked one of the few male reps, aiming the selfie camera at her. “Would you cameo in my Story?”

  “Don’t stop now!” the instructor begged.

  The door opened and Rachel stepped back in, filming herself. “Here we are live at the Nicotera Spirits sales rep day at Shift PDX in the Pearl! Someone show me how to do that Rockette thing in the middle because it’s making me look like I’ve been sipping on too much of that new Nicotera chili pepper vodka, am I right? Eighty-four proof and a World Vodka Award nominee. Let’s dance!”

  An hour later, no one on the team could replicate the entire dance from beginning to end and left without thanking the instructor, their Instagram stories newly clogged with Boomerangs and water breaks.

  Her coworkers shouted goodbye to one another as they separated at the studio door, off to make the most of their free day, now that the hurdle of forced camaraderie was out of the way. Jo found herself the last in the studio. She toweled off her face, caught in the fleeting impulse to scream into the terry cloth. There was a knot in her chest that pulled tighter and tighter as she refused to put pen to paper and release the cons of her new life.

  Storming through the lobby, she took her phone out, wanting to unleash a stream of complaints into a text. But she had endured worse office environments plenty of times and survived. She didn’t want anyone to worry about her. It was Monday—her parents’ one day off, the beginning of everyone else’s workweek.

  It was so strange to remember that not that long ago, she didn’t know how her loved ones spent their time. Now she could picture them perfectly on their ordinary Monday.