“I was listening to that,” I snap.
“You’ve been listening to the same album for days, Amoris. It’s depressing around here. Rayne burst into tears twice today.”
“Joni Mitchell can have that effect on people,” I say.
“It’s time to liven things up!” he says cheerfully. He places the needle down and scratches the record. “Shit. Sorry.”
My frustration boils over.
“Like you have any idea what it’s like around here!” I yell.
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget it.” I go back to organizing my clothes.
“No, Amoris. Talk to your old man.”
I throw a shirt to the floor. It feels so good to release some anger. “Why would I talk to you about my problems? You haven’t earned the right to know about them. You moved out. You come and go as you please, smoking weed all the time. You don’t want to be a dad, so stop pretending. You said so yourself. You’re an alien. Sometimes I wish you would just go back to whatever planet you came from. It would be easier.”
But as I speak, I realize I’ve had it all wrong for months. I keep thinking my life has changed, but the truth is nothing has changed. It’s the same as it always was. Chris isn’t any different than he was five months ago. I’m the one who’s changed. I’m seeing things differently. It’s no wonder he stands there all statuesque, shocked as I rage.
“Is that what you think?” he asks. “That I don’t want to be a dad?”
“Do you?”
Chris sits back down on my bed. “You know what I wanted when I was your age? For my parents to leave me the hell alone.” He runs his hands through his curly blond hair. It’s salted with streaks of white, the only differentiator between my color and his. “To be honest, I still want that.”
I keep my distance, unwilling to give in easily.
“Were Grandma and Grandpa Westmore really that bad?”
Chris eyes me. “Is poison really that deadly?” He chuckles. “I know I’m not conventional. Far from it. I guess I’m trying to be the parent I wanted. I would have given anything for my dad to be out of the house more.”
His confession still doesn’t solve the problem. And I’m exhausted from holding my own life together. I can’t do this for Chris. He’s not a worn-out guitar that needs to be fixed. This is our family. Chris is not mine to remedy. He has to figure this out himself.
“What do you need from me, Amoris?” he asks.
I’m not sure I’m the one who needs mending most. And I’m done meddling.
When I can’t offer Chris an answer, he says, “Well . . . I’m here if you need me.”
But for how long?
“Thanks for the hot chocolate, Dad.”
“Anytime, kiddo.”
After he leaves, I check on the damage Chris did to my record. It’s not completely ruined, but it won’t play like it used to. I place it gently back in its sleeve and into its proper alphabetical order in the crate. I’ll keep it, unable to let one of Grandma’s records go, but I know I won’t play it again.
As the day drifts on, the mug of hot chocolate goes cold, untouched. It seems cruel to keep avoiding Zach’s text. And with so much damage around me, it’s about time I fix something I should have long ago.
20
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
The first time Zach and I had sex was completely unplanned. Of course I had thought about it. I’d even planned how it might happen, in the common delusions-of-grandeur way so many high school girls imagine losing their virginity. It wasn’t so much rose petals on the bed, but more like incense and Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” playing softly as a backdrop to the scene.
When it actually happened, I was surprised by the spontaneity. One minute I was half-asleep in Zach’s bed, the television humming lightly in the background, and the next, we were having sex. All because Zach said I love you.
I would have given anything not to hear those words. Instead of feeling excited, I felt guilty. Zach felt more for me than I felt for him. Even back then, if I’m honest with myself, I knew I couldn’t love Zach. No matter what he did, I always compared him to Jamison. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by since I’d seen Jamison. He was constantly present in my mind, matched against Zach. And in that battle, Zach always lost.
That night, we found what I thought was a good compromise. Zach wanted to move our relationship forward, and I did that the only way I knew how. With sex instead of love.
As I stand in the doorway of his bedroom now, staring at the bed where it happened, I feel guilty all over again. Nothing has changed. Photos of us sit on his desk. The bed is neatly made. Zach is a stickler for that.
He holds a gift in his hands. My birthday is tomorrow.
But when he sees me standing stoically, unable to muster any enthusiasm, Zach looks as if the earth just fell out from under his feet. The present slips from his grasp and falls to the ground.
“We need to talk,” I say.
Zach doesn’t get mad that I don’t want to be with him. He doesn’t beg me to love him or reconsider. He just asks me why. Why did I lie to him? Why didn’t I just tell him the truth months ago? Why string him along?
All my excuses feel like just that—excuses.
When I say I was worried he might hurt himself, he scoffs and tells me it was all hyperbole. And I knew that.
Because it felt easier to tell you a pretty lie, I reason in my head but don’t say out loud. Things felt good until they didn’t. Because lies, no matter how pretty, are just that. And cowards always look for the easy way out.
“I guess what hurts,” he says, “isn’t that you don’t want to be with me, but that you thought I was so pathetic you needed to lie.”
“I don’t think you’re pathetic.”
“But that’s what lying does. It makes me into a fool for believing you.”
“I’ve just . . . changed.”
“So you’ve said.” Zach puts more distance between us. “I didn’t need you to love me, Amoris. But I hoped you would respect me.” Zach hands over the gift. “It’s a snow globe of New York City. I think it broke when I dropped it.”
“What are you going to do about Columbia?” I ask.
“Quite frankly, Amoris, now it’s none of your business. Close the door on your way out.”
I open the present when I get home. The box is full of water and tiny shards of glass. I throw it away, knowing it’s not salvageable. Then I contemplate texting Ellis or Sam or Tucker, but instead I return to my room, put Blue back on the record player, and cry into my pillow until I fall asleep.
21
UNSAFE
I’m not sure what the stages of grief are, or what order they come in, but I know anger is one of them, and I think it comes after the “crying your eyes out” stage.
On my eighteenth birthday, I get angry. I don’t know if it’s because all of my friends are away. I don’t know if it’s the lingering echo of Zach’s final words. Or that the apartment next door is eerily quiet. But a switch flips, and all the crying I’ve done becomes pathetic. The puffy eyes, the moping, the wishes that I could reverse time—it all seems so desperate and useless. Anger is much more helpful.
I call Marnie and beg to pick up an extra shift. I can’t be in my room any longer. I need a distraction. I offer to do anything—run the register, bake, clean toilets—anything to keep my mind off my life. Marnie says she won’t allow me to clean a toilet on my birthday, but she can always use the extra help. She’s taking pity on me. I can hear it in her voice, even through the phone.
A stack of cards sits on the kitchen table. Rayne sets a plate of fresh chocolate chip pancakes down next to them. She examines my overalls, my hair held back by a bandana.
“You’re working on your birthday?” she says.
“I offered.”
“Well, you’re officially an adult, so I can’t stop you,” she says.
“Does this mean we can vote River out?”
“Ha ha.” River plops himself in the seat next to me, his blond hair dangling in his face. I can smell the slight tang of booze on his breath.
Even Chris shows up for breakfast. He kisses Rayne on the cheek before refilling his mug with black coffee. On the surface we appear to be a regular family, but underneath we’re still a mess.
It’s like all the birthday mornings that came before it. There’s a card from Chris’s parents. Inside is a check for $118. Last year, they sent $117.
“Ah, the gift of money,” Chris says. “How capitalistic of them. At least they’re consistent.”
“I’m happy to take their money,” River says, unsuccessfully attempting to snatch the check out of my hands. The quick movement clearly makes his head ache, and he backs off, grabbing his forehead and wincing.
River regifts me a $25 Amazon gift card he got for Christmas last year.
“There’s ten dollars left on it,” he says. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Chris then tells me that he and Rayne decided they wanted to gift me a special piece that Chris has been working on. “It’s not ready yet, but we want you to have it for next year. Are you OK waiting a bit longer for your present?”
I shrug. Seeing as I have no idea what the future holds anyway, all I care about right now is getting out of this house.
Work is only slightly better. I leave my phone in my purse, but I can’t avoid the clock on the wall. It torments me.
Head down. Don’t look up. Let the day pass like any other. But it isn’t just any other day. There are thousands of people born every day. But most people never actually meet someone born on the same day, at the same time. Let alone spend time with that person. Daydream about that person. It’s fate to actually know Jamison. To know a soul mate.
The clock ticks on through the morning and afternoon. I watch the minutes pass. I can’t seem to help it. When the clock finally reaches 3:29, I rummage through my purse, find my phone, and check my messages.
None. I wait the entire minute, watching my phone. Second by second. When it switches to 3:30 without a single message, I put it back in my purse, my stomach rotten with disappointment.
Jamison didn’t text me, but I know he saw the time. And that knowing is what kills me.
Here’s the thing with anger—it likes company, and blame is always willing to join. Later in the afternoon, as I’m cleaning the baking supplies in the back, it appears.
Wendy Betterman walks into the café. I’ve kept my rage tamped down all day, but as I start to make her drink, it suddenly feels uncontrollable. Blaming someone else would feel good right now.
Before I can think any better of it, I snap at her. “What did you mean when you said Jamison was well-spoken?”
Wendy is aghast.
“What has gotten into you, Amoris?”
I say it again, slower, holding back her coconut latte like it’s for ransom. “What did you mean when you said Jamison was well-spoken?”
“Jamison?” And then Wendy seems to put two and two together. “The new employee. I just meant that he’s well-mannered and intelligent—”
“For a Black guy,” I finish. “You mean he’s well-mannered and intelligent for a Black guy.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” she counters.
“Have you ever called a White person ‘well-spoken’?”
“This is ridiculous. Give me my drink.” Wendy reaches for it and I hand it to her, though she has to tug it from my grasp. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I don’t like it.”
“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” I say. “Trust me. I know from experience.”
“I was giving that young man a compliment,” Wendy insists. “Have we become so sensitive as a society that I can’t even do that? Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe we all should!” I throw my hands in the air, exasperated.
“I’m going to tell Marnie about this,” Wendy says.
“Good. I’m going to tell Marnie about what you said to Jamison. She should know one of her customers is harassing an employee.”
“Harassing!” Wendy scoffs. “I said nothing wrong to that boy. It was a compliment. If he didn’t like it, that’s his problem.”
Wendy storms out of the café, and the relief I feel from confronting her dwindles quickly. I finish my shift, but before I leave, I confess everything to Marnie, recounting the original scene with Jamison and my subsequent argument with Wendy.
“I won’t tolerate that kind of behavior,” Marnie says after I finish.
I shove my hands in my pockets, eyes on my dirty overalls. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at a customer.”
“Amoris,” Marnie says, touching my arm. “I mean that behavior from Wendy. No one is allowed to make my employees feel unsafe.”
Unsafe. I hadn’t really thought about it that way.
Marnie thanks me for telling her and says she’ll talk to Jamison. She gives me a batch of chocolate muffins, the one in the middle topped with a birthday candle.
“You have to make a wish before you leave.” She lights the candle, and she and Louisa sing a horribly off-key version of “Happy Birthday.” I blow out the candle.
“What did you wish for?” Louisa asks.
“She can’t tell!” Marnie interjects.
“Well, whatever it is,” Louisa says, “I hope it comes true.”
“Me, too,” I say.
It’s highly unlikely, though. Jamison is done with me. But I had to try. One last time.
22
YOU DON’T KNOW ME
Two days after Christmas, someone breaks into the apartment next door. I sit up in bed at the noise. The Rushes are gone until the New Year, but a light is on in the apartment, and the door is cracked open.
I slip on my winter boots, phone clutched in one hand, a baseball bat in the other. I don’t want to alarm Rayne, and since Chris left for yet another art show and River is out with friends doing God knows what, this falls to me.
I tiptoe across the bridge and inch my way to the open door. Keeping my back to the house, I yell, “I know you’re in there. I’m giving you ten seconds to leave or I’m calling the police!”
A commotion follows, and I back away from the door, baseball bat primed.
Jamison emerges, panicked and yelling, “Don’t call the police!”
I stand in front of him, bat raised high. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing with a baseball bat? Were you seriously going to fight off an intruder with that?”
“So?”
“So, you’re basically a munchkin. Next time just call 9-1-1.”
“You just told me not to call the cops.”
“Because I’m not an intruder,” Jamison says. “I live here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” I ask. This could have been bad. I could have hurt him. Our house could be surrounded by police cars.
“I wasn’t aware I needed to do that.”
“Well, you do.” I cross my arms over my chest, still holding the bat.
“Now I have to clear my schedule with you?”
“You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be gone for another week.”
“Well, I took the bus and came back early. Surprise. Now put the bat down.”
“Don’t boss me around.” I turn on my heel and storm away from the apartment. I make it halfway across the bridge before I change my mind. I spin around, only to find Jamison following me. “Where’s Kaydene? Why isn’t she here?”
“She stayed behind.” Jamison raises his hands like I’m arresting him. “Whatever you do, please don’t use your bat.”
I groan and stomp away, but I only make it a few steps before I throw down the bat and confront him again.
“Why didn’t you text me on our birthday? I waited.”
“I waited, too,” he says. “Why didn’t you text m
e?”
“Because I’m stubborn, and you know it.”
“That’s not my fault. Any other questions, Officer? Or can I go to bed now?”
So much fire courses through my veins, I might combust. If I wanted to stop my mouth now, it would be impossible. I’m a volcano of words and emotion. I’ve had too much time to think, here all alone with no distractions. One thing is his fault, and I finally want an answer. “You know what? I do have another question. Why, Jay? Why did you kiss her?”
“What?” he asks, surprised.
My voice cracks, but I spit it out, because it can’t stay locked in me any longer. “I saw you. Behind the garage. You could have kissed anyone. Why did you choose her?”
Jamison runs his hand over his forehead, slowly understanding. “First of all, I didn’t kiss Ellis. She kissed me.”
“You expect me to believe that.”
“It’s the truth,” he says fiercely. “She pulled me back there. Said she wanted to help me hide. That she knew a good spot. I had no idea she had ulterior motives.”
“But you kissed her back.”
“Yeah, I kissed her back!” Jamison yells. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“Why then? Because it sure looked like you enjoyed it.”
“Because I didn’t trust her, Amoris.”
“What?”
“My mom warned me about situations like those. Piss the wrong White girl off, and you’re guilty, no proof needed. I knew Ellis wasn’t a girl to be messed with. I figured if I kissed her back, she’d be cool. We were leaving the next day. I never thought I’d see her again.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“You didn’t give me the chance. You cut me out of your life.”
“I just . . .” But words fall short. And I’m so sick of falling short. “But what was so wrong with me, Jay?”
The anger that’s kept me going for weeks, maybe years, completely deflates. I’m exhausted from trying to hold myself together.
“Nothing,” Jamison says. “Nothing is wrong with you.” He moves toward me, but I hold out my hand to stop him. He’s inches away. So close. But there is something wrong with me. I’ve been awful to him. He may have caused me pain, but I’ve done the same to him.
Only the Pretty Lies Page 14
