I feel like maybe I’m supposed to applaud her, but no one else does, so I don’t. She smiles at us and then taps the podium gently. “Well, if no one else has any stories to share then I’d like to—”
To my complete surprise, Dad stands up.
“Oh, one of our new faces,” Pam says. “We’re so happy to see you. Do you have something you’d like to say?” She gestures at the microphone in front of her and takes a step back to let Dad approach it. He sends Pam a strange, close-lipped smile and then starts to speak into the microphone, his accent larger than life.
“I’m, uh, Fergus. I was seventeen when my family came here on holiday. I’d never had a drink in my life. I was a good boy, through and through. And then I fell in love. I fell in love with a beautiful American girl, completely lost my mind over her. We had a passionate summer together and then my parents shipped me back to Scotland, wiping their hands of the whole experience. But my girl was pregnant, so as soon as I turned eighteen, I got a work visa, moved across the ocean, and now here I am. Only, my parents hated the whole arrangement, so they disowned me. No money, no family, nothin’ but my pregnant girl, so I got a job, she went to college, and everything was all right. I loved them more than anything in the world, my wife and son.
“But she wanted it all, yeah? She wanted the fairy tale. She wanted a big house and a successful husband and fifteen kids, and I couldn’t afford any of that, so I started to drink. And then we really couldn’t afford anything, so I started borrowing money so I could drink more. And then, one day it was all gone. I woke up from a drunk stupor to find that my wife didn’t love me anymore, my kid didn’t know me, I’d lost my job, I’d lost everything. She kicked me out of the house, and I saw my kid every once in a while. But what reason did I have to live? What reason did I have to be sober every morning? So that I could be clearheaded to see how far down the fuckin’ toilet my life had gone? I didn’t want to see it straight. I didn’t want to see that I had nothing.
“So I stayed drunk. And the only time I got with my kid was when he was picking me up off the side of the road or scrapin’ me outta some bar. But he got hurt. He was picking my sorry ass up in the middle of the night and some other drunk slammed into him and broke his fuckin’ arm, gave him a concussion, and I can’t fucking take that back. And I can’t take back the years that I spent knocked out on my ass or wasted as fuck, but I can try from here. I still don’t have anything, but my son is alive, so that’s a reason to keep my nose clean.”
I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.
Pam smiles at him and then smiles out at me from behind the podium. Dad takes his seat beside me and pats me on the knee like we’re buddies, but I can’t stop looking at him. I can’t stop trying to figure out why I’ve never heard this whole story before.
After the meeting, Pam comes to talk to us. “I like to personally greet all our new faces,” she says. “I just want you to know that we’re always here, and that you can always feel safe here.” She grins in my direction. “You must be the son.” She gestures at my cast, and I wave it awkwardly. Her eyes are back on Dad. “I wish you the best. And hopefully we’ll see you back here very soon.”
OLIVER
DAD IS TRYING to figure out what he wants off the dinner menu, and I’m trying to decide if the thoughts going through my head are really something I’m thinking about blurting out right here in the middle of Charlie’s. He finally decides on pancakes, even though it’s almost eleven at night, and I decide on a cup of coffee.
The waitress wanders off, and my father and I are left in a kind of quiet that we’ve never been in before. Even when Dad was pretty solidly drunk, he’s always been a talker. He’s always been the one who hates the silence. And now here he is, staring down at the table between us like it’s going to erase everything that’s happened in the last two hours.
I have never known this much of my father, and I’m not sure that I want to know. Life is more complicated when he’s more than just a fuckup. When he’s more than just the consistently drunk father who also consistently ruins my life.
And now everything is different. And I can’t even explain why, but I have an immediate urge to tell him the truth about school. It’s almost April, and when the school year ends, I can’t keep up this charade with Mom. So, what harm could it do, to tell him everything right now, after everything he just said in there?
“I have something to tell you,” I say, and from the way Dad looks up at me, his eyes tired and the bags under them looking like they need their own zip codes, I know he’s just as afraid as I am. So I take a deep breath, and I plunge in. “I’m not going to college.”
He looks at me for a second like he doesn’t quite know who I am, and then he leans back in the booth, his body sagging. “Fuck,” is all he says, the word barely a whisper, and for some reason, even though I know that’s not a particularly good response, it gives me the momentum to keep talking.
“I never applied to the school I told Mom I was going to. And when I don’t get a letter from them, she’s going to know I didn’t apply, and I’m just going to be one more disappointment in her life.”
Dad leans forward again, planting his elbows on the table and covering his mouth with one hand. “Fuck, she’s gonna kill you,” he says, and I sigh because duh. Of course she’s going to kill me. But doesn’t he have any other advice for me? From one disappointment to another, he’s got to have something. He taps on the table between us, clicking his teeth together. “When you gonna tell her?” he asks.
I bang my head on the table so loud my coffee cup rattles on its saucer. “Fuck if I know. Maybe I don’t have to tell her. I can say they offered me a free ride so she doesn’t ask about money. I can just pack my shit at the end of the summer and just pretend I’m living on campus. Maybe she’ll never ask about it.”
My father is silent, and when I lift my head, he’s sending me a look like, You know you’re an idiot, right?
“Okay, yes, it’s a stupid idea,” I shoot at him. “I get that. But I have no fucking clue what to do.”
I’m not expecting it, but for just a second, he doesn’t look like the person I’ve become so used to sitting across this table from. He looks like an adult. He looks like a father. He looks like someone who has something to say, like someone whose opinion might mean something.
“Oli, if this is really what you want to do, and to be honest, at this point I don’t think you have much of a choice, you’re buried so deep in it, you need to tell your mum. You need to tell her what you want and you have to be prepared to lose her respect. You have to be ready to lose her for the life you want for yourself. We’ve been holding you down long enough. It’s time for you to do something for yourself.”
By the time he’s done speaking, my hands are trembling. When Dad stood up to his parents, they cut him off. They disowned him. My father said no, and this is where it got him. Every time Mom told me if I didn’t stay on track, I would end up like my father, it always felt like the ultimate threat. And maybe Dad fucked up, but at least he tried. At least he had the balls to stand up for what he wanted.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He blinks at me, probably because I’ve never thanked him for anything in my life.
OLIVER
I’M NOT SURPRISED that Mom is throwing me a surprise party. If there’s anything my mom is terrible at, it’s keeping secrets, especially when that secret requires calling your boss and changing your schedule so that you show up at work only to find that your boss isn’t there and you don’t actually have a shift to work and now have to drive all the way back home. Subtle.
So I’m not surprised when I walk up to the apartment and it’s almost comically dark. Mom didn’t even leave the front porch light on, and I’m pretty sure that light has been left on permanently since we moved in. The entire apartment is dark and silent, and I know it’s because everyone inside is collectively holding their breath.
And I’m not surprised when the light goes on and
there’s a meager exclamation of “Surprise!”
I am, however, surprised to find four people in my living room instead of three. Because I know Mom didn’t invite Amy. And there’s no reason she should be here, in my living room, dressed like she’s about to go on a date, in a shiny silver top and a black skirt that hugs her in all the most distracting places. But she’s here anyway, and I can’t take my eyes off her as Mom smiles at me and then a cake is produced. My favorite, chocolate with white icing.
I blow out the candles, and we sit around the dining room table, eating pizza, and I’m trying to be part of the conversation, but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Amy is wearing heels. And hoop earrings.
Mom clears her throat. “So, Amy,” she begins. “Oli tells me you’re going to Stanford.”
Amy chokes on the pizza in her mouth. Brooke slides a soda in her direction, and Amy gulps it down before answering. “Actually, I haven’t gotten in yet. I’m still waiting to hear back.”
Mom waves Amy off. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get in,” she says. “You seem like a very smart girl. And so pretty.” As if that has anything to do with getting into college. Mom glances at me in the absolutely least subtle way, and I roll my eyes. Across the table, Amy’s eyes have gone wide, and a blush is spreading across her cheeks.
“You know,” Brooke says, her mouth half full. Unlike Amy, she hasn’t dressed up. She’s wearing a black tank top and ripped jeans, and I wish beyond every wish that I could be as comfortable as she looks now. “We’ve been thinking of moving the shop to Cali. The hipsters out there are way more into vinyl than anyone in Missouri. Plus better work for Lauren when she’s out of law school. We wouldn’t be able to do it any time soon. We’d have to find a building and all that junk. But if it happens, you’re a shoo-in for a store manager position.” She nudges Amy with her elbow, and Amy looks discombobulated again.
“Oh,” is all she says, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s an oh like that’s a terrific offer that she’d love to take Brooke up on, or oh like Amy has no plans to be in any way associated with Spirits as soon as she leaves for California. She probably plans to cut all ties. She won’t have time for people back in Kansas City once she’s gone.
My pizza suddenly seems unappetizing.
“Oli, why don’t we go ahead and open your presents?”
I still have pizza in my mouth, but I take a sip of soda to wash it down and accept a gift my mother hands me. It’s a box covered in striped wrapping paper. I smile at Mom, figuring I probably know what’s in it. Mom gets me a band T-shirt every year for my birthday without fail. Inside is a Civil Wars T-shirt.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom leans over to hug me, and when she sits back, her eyes are glistening. “I can’t believe my baby is already nineteen. Where did the time go?”
She does this every year, too. “Aw, Mom. Suck it up.” I smile over at her, and I can’t help but think maybe, just maybe, when I finally get around to telling her I don’t want to go to college, maybe she’ll be on my side, maybe she’ll understand.
I go back to my gifts, opening a set of KISS bobbleheads from Marshal and a Death Cab for Cutie poster from Brooke.
“Your mom said to get you something for your dorm room,” Brooke says, motioning at the poster.
Beside her, Mom grimaces. “I was thinking more along the lines of a lamp or a sheet set.”
A skinny envelope sits on the tabletop, and I reach for it, my stomach hopping up into my throat when I see there’s a stack of bills sitting inside. Mom grins at me. “That’s for when you’re ready to do your dorm shopping. I figure we could go soon and get everything you need.”
I stare down into the envelope, feeling an urgent and sudden need to just spill everything, to tell her I’m not going to college and I’m not going to live in a dorm and I’m certainly not going to take this money. But when I look up and see everyone’s eyes on me, I know this isn’t the place to spit everything out. My eyes find Amy’s, and she sends me a sympathetic smile. She, at least, knows, and that’s enough to comfort me as I shove the envelope in my back pocket.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Mom stretches to reach across the table and pick up the last gift left. She scans the wrapping, which is just pieces of tissue paper layered over one another. When she doesn’t see a card or a tag, Mom scowls. “Who is this from?” she asks, as if there are at least a hundred other people it could have come from.
“Oh, I brought that,” Amy spits out. “It’s really nothing special.” Amy looks embarrassed, but I reach out and take it. I know the weight of a CD case in my hand, and my mind is already on that mix she made me of “Hallelujah” covers while I rip the tissue paper off.
All that’s written on the mix is the Front Bottoms.
When I look back at Amy, her face is buried in her hands, and I can see the blush that’s spread all the way to her ears and down her neck. “It’s so stupid,” she says, her words muffled by her hands.
“It’s not stupid,” I tell her, even though I don’t know exactly what it is. It doesn’t really matter. If it came from Amy, it’s not stupid.
She bites her lip. “It’s just a mix of my favorites. Nothing special.”
Maybe it’s not the best party etiquette, but I take the CD into the living room, where Mom still holds on to her huge stereo from the nineties on an antique side table. I pop open the top and put the CD in, and when the music starts, I wave everyone into the living room with me.
Amy hesitates, hovering between the dining room and the living room, watching us as the notes I know so well, the reverberating notes of “Molly” blare from the stereo. On another day, Mom would tell me the music is too loud, that I’m going to shake the paint off the walls, but today, she just leans against the wall and smiles at me.
I reach out for Amy and pull her into the living room with me as “Molly” dissolves into “Flashlight,” a song that’s fast and pumping, and Brooke is already dancing through the living room with her eyes closed. As the chorus picks up, the drums and the guitar screaming loud, we bounce around the living room, clapping our hands and making room when Marshal joins us, the four of us dancing until we’re out of breath and our downstairs neighbors probably hate us.
When the CD ends, the apartment falling quiet again, we all collapse on the couch, and I’m pressed between the arm of the couch and Amy, her leg against mine from hip to knee.
“Thank you,” I say to her as Brooke and Mom start to discuss whether or not we’re done with the snow for the rest of the year.
“It’s nothing,” she says, her eyes sparking in the light of the living room lamp. “I probably should have given you some new music instead so that you could finally bow before me, The Queen of Music.”
She grins at me, and I pinch her lightly on her knee. She shrieks and punches me in the arm, and I’m happier than I’ve been since, well, ever.
OLIVER
IT’S CLOSE TO eleven when everyone starts to grumble like they’re ready to leave.
Mom is the first one to go.
“No one has to leave,” she says, putting her hands up to stop us when Brooke and Marshal move toward the direction of the door. Mom has changed into her scrubs and is fastening her watch to her wrist. “I didn’t mean to break up the fun. I just really have to get to work.”
“No, that’s okay,” Brooke says, tucking her hands into her back pockets. “I have to get to the shop and help Lauren get closed up. Sorry, Oli.”
“Yeah, sorry, Oli,” Marshal says, “but if I don’t get home before my roommate brings whatever girl he’s met back to the apartment, he’ll lock me out all night, and I’ve been sleeping in my car too much.”
I just nod, trying hard not to dwell on the fact that everyone is going to leave, and I’m going to be left in this unbearably silent apartment. I’m getting ready to shut the door behind all of them when Brooke scowls at me. “Where’s Amy? I was going to give her a ride home.”
I look over my sh
oulder, but Amy is nowhere to be found. I turn back to Brooke. “She was going to the bathroom earlier. Maybe something’s wrong.”
Brooke sends me a weird look, but she doesn’t move. She crosses her arms and then her mouth curls into a smile. “You know what? Marshal and I are going to head out. Why don’t you go ahead and give Amy a ride home yourself when she gets out of the bathroom?”
My stomach flutters at her suggestion. I know she’s just screwing with me. That she’s loving it, in fact. But if I’m being honest, the idea of being alone with Amy, of getting to be the one to drive her home, makes my skin heat with excitement.
“Yeah, I’ll just, uh, take her home. I’ll give her a ride. That’s not a problem. I can do that.”
Brooke grins at me, cocks one eyebrow, and then she and Marshal are gone. I shut the door and stare at it for a long time, waiting for Amy’s footsteps behind me. But she never comes, and after a few minutes, I make my way down the hall to the bathroom. I’m not entirely sure of the best way to approach the situation. Will it embarrass her if I knock on the door and ask her if she’s okay? Probably.
But when I get to the end of the hallway, the bathroom door is open, and the light is off. I stop, thoroughly confused, and then I hear something in my bedroom, the telling clatter of CD cases smacking together. I’m already smiling by the time I get there. And there she is, looking like the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, in the dim light of my bedside lamp, standing in front of my floor-to-ceiling shelves, rifling through my CDs and vinyl.
AMY
WHEN I TURN slightly away from Oliver’s music collection and see the shape of someone in the doorway, I screech and drop the CD in my hand. Oliver steps into the room, already laughing.
All Our Worst Ideas Page 18
