by Jen Doll
“Are you drunk now?” she asks.
“No,” he says.
“Good,” she says. “We’re not going to get in a car with you behind the wheel anytime soon, but we can be your friends. We can try to help. Right, Nell?” Doris has this determined look on her face.
“Definitely,” I say. “You can talk to us.”
“But if you drink, and especially if you drink and drive, know this,” she adds. “I will not keep it quiet. The coach’s messed-up gag rule does not apply to me. Or Nell.”
I nod solemnly. We are a united front, and we can help our friend. I know we can.
Grant nods, too. “OK.”
My phone chooses that awkward moment to beep. I pull it out and see that I’ve got a text from Ashton. PONY I got my phone back for 5 minutes, call if you’re around! the message says. Even though I’m aching to hear his voice, I turn the ringer to silent and stash the phone in my pocket, because right now there’s something more important happening than me and Ashton.
23
Grant
When I get home, it’s after ten and the house is dark. I don’t have any messages from Mom, and I figure it’s all good. After all, I left a note that said I was with Doris, and my mom’s the one who got her to hire me in the first place—how can Mom argue with that? Doris is the polar opposite of a bad influence. I’m quiet when I open the door because I don’t want to wake anyone up, but when I get to the living room, a voice nearly scares the crap out of me.
“Grant,” says my mom. She’s sitting there on the couch, a little book light aimed at the novel she’s reading. “I was waiting up for you.”
“Didn’t you get my note?” I ask.
“I got your note,” she says. “But I kept thinking about the argument we had earlier. I couldn’t sleep.”
“Nell’s little brother got lost at the water park,” I say.
“Oh no!” she says. “Their poor family.”
“They were really upset, but Doris found him. He’d wandered back home.”
“Bless their hearts,” she says.
“Afterward the Wachowskis invited us back to their house for dinner. I’m sorry I didn’t call.” I don’t add that I’m sorry for everything, but I think it.
She puts her book down and comes over to hug me. I’m pretty sure she’s just getting close so she can smell me, to see if I’ve got any booze clinging to me. But I don’t. I didn’t drink anything tonight, and I’m hoping I can keep from drinking tomorrow, too. So for the first time in a long time, I don’t try to get away from her. I stand there, and she puts her head on my shoulder, and she holds me like she used to when I was little and scared and she’d comfort and protect me from the bad things of the world. I’m a lot bigger now, but for a minute, I let myself feel OK.
24
Things to Do When You Lose a Suitcase: A List
1. Wait for a very long time at baggage claim, thinking your missing suitcase will eventually emerge. Maybe it’s still on the tarmac and someone will finally load it onto the conveyor belt and out it will pop, hooray, hooray! Maybe it’s forgotten on the plane. Maybe it’s on the next flight. Someone will find it. Someone has to. Right? How can a suitcase just disappear? Why is everyone so incompetent?
2. Think about everything in the suitcase that you really don’t want to be without. Think about what you’ll do if you are, permanently. Cry.
3. Call the airline and complain. Call many times. Talk to someone at a call center who doesn’t seem to care at all about your missing bag. Their stuff isn’t missing. Tell them things would be different if they knew how it felt. Initiate a claim. Make more calls.
4. Feel untold frustration. Scream into the air, if that helps. It does, a little. Keep calling. Yell at someone you love. Feel guilty about that. They didn’t lose your stuff.
5. Wait some more. Buy new things, because you need what you need. Borrow a pair of shoes from a traveling companion, if you are still traveling. Steal a shirt someone left on a park bench. (Does that count as stealing?) Make do. Feel a little more OK with knowing you may never get your things back, that impermanence is a part of life, nothing is forever.
6. Scream again.
7. Maybe, just maybe, get a reimbursement for what you had to buy to replace what was in your bag.
8. Realize that some things are simply irreplaceable.
9. Vow to travel lighter in the future.
10. Move on, but don’t forget. Tell your story of loss to anyone who ever talks about flying anywhere.
11. Don’t check. Carry on.
25
Nell
It’s the last week in June, and we’re in the stockroom again. Grant is leaning back in his chair at the table, tilting on the legs as he checks the master list of inventory. This morning, Red asked us to put out as much Fourth of July merch as we could find for a last-minute holiday sale. We’ve dug up actual flags as well as picnic tablecloths and short shorts and bikini tops patterned like flags, which Doris points out is probably not what the founding fathers had in mind, independence-wise, back in 1776.
“Maybe it’s exactly what they’d dreamed of,” Grant interrupts.
“Ew,” I say. “Down with the original patriarchy!” Doris and I laugh, because would that you could get rid of the patriarchy by throwing a picnic while wearing a bikini.
“Oh, look!” I say, showing my friends a partially used bottle of black nail polish with glittery sparkles I’ve dug out of a makeup kit. “It’s called Fireworks, does that count?”
“Let me see,” says Doris, grabbing the bottle and investigating. She opens it and gives her index finger a swipe. “Ooh, I like it,” she says. “If only my fingernails weren’t so hideous. I really have to stop biting them.”
“Try painting them,” I suggest. “That worked for my friend Nisha. She couldn’t bite her nails without looking at them, and seeing the polish reminded her not to do it.”
“I’ve tried a million things, including that stuff that tastes terrible,” says Doris. “I’m a nailaholic. There’s no hope.”
Then she covers her mouth and looks at Grant. “Whoops, I didn’t mean that.”
But Grant doesn’t seem offended. “Whenever I drink, I look at my hands,” he says, considering it. “At least, the first time I pick up a glass or a bottle. Do you think painting my nails might help me stop drinking?”
“But drinking wouldn’t make you eat the polish, which is the idea behind painting your nails, especially with stuff that tastes bad,” I explain. “That’s what makes you stop. That and you don’t want to mess up your manicure.”
He’s undeterred. “I know it’s a weird idea,” he says. “But it could be a signal, something to bring me back to reality, you know? A reminder. Like a red light telling me to stop. It gets ingrained in your brain, and you just do it.”
“It could work,” says Doris. “Like a placebo effect. If you believe it, maybe it will.”
“What do I have to lose?” he asks.
I laugh. “Is it that you really want a manicure? Because I am really good at giving manicures. You may find that you love getting manicures more than you like drinking.”
“I’ve never had a manicure,” he says. “And I’ve drunk plenty. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Well, OK, then,” I say, pulling some cotton balls and a nail file out of the makeup bag. “Luckily, the Vanessa’s got everything we need.”
“Vanessa?”
I point to the suitcase the makeup bag came in, a fancy gold hard case that matches the flecks in the polish. “Doesn’t she just seem like a Vanessa?”
Both of them nod, humoring me. Grant puts his hands out flat on the table, and Doris and I peer at them.
“You don’t bite them at all, do you?” asks Doris. “What’s your secret?”
“I have other vices,” he says.
Ten minutes and two coats later, Grant is waving his fingers in the air to dry t
hem. “Now I see why Chassie was always going to the nail salon,” he says. “This is pretty fun.” He fans his hands out in front of his face and strikes a pose.
“They look really good,” I say, and Doris nods.
“They give your whole jock-slash-boy-next-door-slash-Hilfiger-model thing an edge,” she adds.
“I agree, he’s shifted from football hottie to boy rocker,” I say.
“Ladies, ladies, I’m right here and can hear everything you’re saying about me,” he protests. “But mainly I just hope this works.”
“Keep the bottle,” says Doris, handing it to him. “It was half gone already, so it’s no good to sell. When you start to chip, you can do your own touch-ups. Now, let’s get back to work before Red comes in and asks us why he’s running a nail salon.”
* * *
By the end of the day, we’ve added a whole bunch of T-shirts with eagles and AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL printed on them; a stack of red, white, and blue party supplies; an American-history-themed Mad Libs; and a Jasper Johns American flag puzzle to the holiday stash. I also find a pair of personalized Keds with hand-painted red-and-white stripes on the left shoe and white stars on a blue background on the other, and Grant pulls a two-foot Uncle Sam statue, which no one in his or her right mind should have ever purchased, much less traveled with, out of a giant, rose-patterned footlocker. Cat knocks on the door of the stockroom—she’s the only one who ever knocks; she says teens need “their privacy,” which makes us groan—and we yell, “Come in!”
“Hey, y’all!” she says. “I just wanted to say hi, make sure you weren’t lonely back here.”
“You dyed your hair!” I say. It’s green now instead of purple. “I love it.”
“I needed a change,” she explains. “Or, I guess, I’m about to embark on a big change, and I wanted my look to change along with it.”
“When’s your last day?” asks Doris, making a sad face.
“July thirty-first,” says Cat, pretending to wipe away a tear. “I can’t believe it’s so soon. The going-away party is the week after that; y’all have to come!”
“We’ll be there,” says Doris.
“If I wasn’t so excited, I’d be stressed out of my mind. I still have to pack! I need to arrange movers.…”
“My mom arranged our move—for a family of four—in less than a month,” I tell her. “Of course, she can be kind of intense.”
“She is a rocket scientist,” says Grant.
“More important, you still have to teach me everything you know about Instagram,” I tell Cat. “What am I going to do without you?”
“That’s also why I’m here,” she tells me. “I wanted to tell you how great you’re doing! We’ve gotten a bunch of new followers already. I loved the skeleton post. Hilarious.”
I smile and point to our recent find. “I was thinking about taking a shot of that footlocker with the Uncle Sam statue emerging, and doing an America’s Best Deals on Fourth of July Merch caption. Grant can hold up the statue and make it look like it’s really pointing at the camera.”
Grant laughs. “You could say, Uncle Sam Wants You … to Shop at Unclaimed Baggage!”
“Hey, you’re pretty good, too,” says Cat, turning to give him a high five. “Ooh, I love your polish!”
“Thanks,” he says, and Doris and I grin.
“It’s always good to see a guy playing with gender norms,” she says. “Especially a football hero. You have a lot of influence in this town. You could shake things up, you know. Make people a little more tolerant to differences.”
He laughs again. “First I gotta fix myself. But maybe.”
“Plus, it looks cool as hell.” She checks her phone. “Ugh, gotta run, band practice!”
“See ya, Cat,” says Doris.
“Check the Insta later!” I tell her as she walks out the door.
“I can’t wait,” she says, and blows us a kiss good-bye.
Around six, Byron, who has been working the registers all day, pokes his head into the stockroom. As usual, he’s got on his necklace with the dangling silver elephant. Grant told us Byron started wearing it after a historic game he helped win against Auburn while he was at the University of Alabama, where an elephant named Big Al is the team mascot. Apparently, it’s his good luck charm, even now that he doesn’t play.
“Hey, y’all,” says Byron, holding the charm between his right thumb and index finger. “The store’s empty. I’m about to close up and get out of here.” He looks down at the pile we’ve got going and shakes his head. “America, huh? What a storied history of mass-produced goods.”
“USA!” chants Doris. “Land of the free-to-wear-whatever-tacky-thing-you-want-that’s-got-a-picture-of-the-American-flag-on-it. I kind of like these shoes Nell found, though.” She waves a Ked in the air. “Red asked us to put all this stuff out in the store for tomorrow morning, so we can stay and lock up when we’re finished with that.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “Just make sure you have your keys. Red still can’t find his. Hey, what are all of y’all up to for the Fourth? Are you going to the balloon festival like everybody else around here?”
“What’s the balloon festival?” I ask, typical dumb newbie, and Doris and Grant look at me, realization dawning in their faces.
“She’s never been to the balloon festival,” says Doris.
“She’s never been to the balloon festival!” repeats Grant.
Byron asks incredulously, “She’s never been to the balloon festival?”
Doris says, “This is an urgent matter. Byron, we are taking her to the balloon festival,” and Grant nods. “It’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Nell, do you have any balloon-themed clothing? Never mind, we can find you something here. Doris, do we have any balloon-themed clothing?”
Doris jumps up and runs to the back of the aisles and, seconds later, returns with a sweatshirt that’s got deflated latex balloons attached all over it. “You’re supposed to blow into these,” she says. “Preferably when you’re not wearing it…”
“This store really does have everything,” I say, laughing.
Byron shakes his head in that grown-up way that indicates he was not too long ago one of us, and he’s glad he’s not anymore. “Make sure you get there early. Shana’s cousin works for the park and says they’ve sold more tickets this year than ever. Thousands of people are coming from all over the country.” He checks his watch. “I gotta run, I’m supposed to meet Shana in fifteen minutes, and she really, really hates it when I’m late. Lock up good, ya hear? Oh, and it’s pouring out there, so don’t forget your umbrellas when you leave. It’s supposed to storm all night.”
“Got it!” says Doris, and Byron makes his exit.
“Wait, but WHAT IS THE BALLOON FESTIVAL?” I ask again.
Grant throws his arm around my shoulder, all casual and friendly. “Nell, my friend, you are in for an Alabama treat. The balloon festival is an annual tradition in these parts.” I raise my eyebrows. “I can tell you’re skeptical,” he continues, putting on a fake dramatic announcer voice. “But even the most cynical youth has been known to gasp in joy at the sight of hundreds of hot-air balloons floating off into the horizon. It’s a spiritual moment, one’s first balloon festival.”
“People cry,” adds Doris.
“There are no clowns, right?” I ask, and they both shake their heads vehemently, and Grant crosses his heart.
Last Fourth of July, my dad grilled hot dogs and cheeseburgers, and I had Morgan and Nisha over, and we gossiped about boys until the sun set and then ran around the neighborhood with sparklers. That was fun, but this is going to be something more. We’ll camp out, because everyone camps out, says Grant. I have never been a camping kind of person, but now, suddenly, maybe I am.
As we talk we’re still casually unpacking, because even though the store is technically closed, no one has anywhere they have to be, and we’re all having too good a time to leave.
“Look what I just found
!” says Grant, holding up a full bag of Doritos that came from a blue duffel bag I named the Norm. “Is it snack time? I think it’s snack time.”
“Can we actually eat those?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
“They haven’t been opened. And they’re Doritos! How can you pass up free Doritos?” says Grant. We look to Doris for her opinion.
“What’s the expiration date?” she asks.
Grant investigates. “Not until February of next year!”
“Fair game, then,” she says. “I’m hungry. Who wants a Coke from the vending machine?”
A few minutes later, we’re sitting there trying not to get orange dust on the items we’re unpacking and sipping our ice cold RC Colas, which is all the vending machine ever has in it on account of some special deal Red cut with the company. Everyone calls it Coke, anyway, because that’s what you call soda down South.
“Doritos are so good,” says Doris. “How do they make them so freaking delicious?”
“There are chemicals in them that make you love them, literally,” I say. “There was an article about that that my mom made me read when she was trying to get me to quit them.”
“My mouth is too happy for my brain to worry about this information,” says Doris.
“The article didn’t work,” I say, putting another chip in my mouth and crunching.
“What in the world…?” interrupts Grant, pulling a long, fleshlike object from the Norm.
“What? Not again!” says Doris.
But it’s far too large to be another dildo, and then there’s an elbow and a hand and fingers. “It’s a prosthetic arm,” says Grant. “Wow. I wonder what the story is with this one.”
“Finally, you’re curious about a luggage mystery!” I tease him.
“Well, this is a little more interesting than an empty bag,” he says.
“We actually get those kind of a lot,” Doris tells us. “I mean, not a lot, but it’s happened more than once! Prosthetic buttocks, however, are quite rare.”
“Just think: Someday we might be able to put together a full human body!” I say. Doris laughs, but Grant is busy looking at his own freshly manicured fingers with something like a smile on his face.
