“We should go,” I murmur, biting his lip. He makes a noise from somewhere in his throat that I’ve only heard a few other times, but I want to hear more of it. Much more of it.
“Okay, okay, later,” he says.
“Are you sure your parents are gonna be gone all night?” I ask as he drives up my street toward school.
“I’m sex positive,” he says, then salutes the windshield.
“Wow,” I laugh. “That was so bad.”
“You liked it,” he says, grinning.
I grin back. “Only because I like you.”
School is so weird at night. Lights you never knew existed get turned on, and custodians you’ve never seen before open closets you thought were pretend. Inside the front entrance, balloons frame a banner that reads WELCOME TO YOUR NIGHT, SENIORS! Our whole class is trickling in loudly, and a little way down the hall, Evelyn is handing out itineraries. There’s the dance performance, the debate performance, and the make-your-own-pizza thing, which is not a performance but could become one. Gene and I hold hands as we walk toward the auditorium, passing a poster for the Breast Cancer Polar Plunge.
“Aw, man,” he says, “I was hoping everyone would vote for the Brain Degeneration Walk. I do not want to freeze my balls off.”
“Damn,” I say, but a chorus of angels is singing a cappella in my head. My mom still hasn’t broken the news to my dad and me about the walk, but I doubt she’s changed her mind. I don’t know how I would have dealt with both school and parents in the same venue. The same zip code is bad enough.
“Wow, I would not like to dance in front of all these people,” Gene yells over the music blasting in the auditorium. We take a seat next to Hilary, and he and I play elbow-footsies on the armrest. The whole senior class is plopping down in the maroon-felt seats, and there’s something exciting and loud and warm about that, especially when someone turns around and looks at me and Gene together. I exist, he exists, we do exist together.
Brendan walks to the middle of the stage and says, “Welcome to Senior Night!” He’s holding a microphone and wearing another tutu over his jeans.
“That dude never turns down an opportunity for attention,” Gene whispers, and by the sounds of the whispers around us, I assume other people are saying something similar.
“Maybe he’s really lonely,” I whisper back, and then I lean over Gene. “Hey, Hil, does Brendan have friends? I only ever see him with Student Council people, and I figure since you’re an officer—”
“Sure, he does. Student Council people,” Hilary says. She’s sitting next to a beautiful arrangement of yellow tulips and blue bulbous flowers that travel up a thick stem and come to a point. The tissue they’re wrapped in is sparkling and GODDAMMIT I FORGOT TO GET ABIGAIL A BOUQUET BECAUSE I WAS SO BUSY WITH MY FREAKING ARMPITS.
Gene leans over and examines my face. “Hey, don’t worry, he’s so cheerful all the time.”
I fiddle with the shoelace of my combat boot. “Yeah, but everyone puts on an act when people are around.”
“I don’t!” Gene has a funny smile on his face, like we’re telling jokes around a campfire together. “Do you?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Sorry for the technical difficulties,” Brendan says. He’s tapping the microphone, and it’s piercing my eardrum with its thumping. “Please welcome your dance team, led by senior captains Abigail Castillo and Rose Williams.”
They shimmy onto the stage as everyone claps. They have big fake eyelashes on and baggy pants and tight shirts and special sneakers that moonwalk or something. “I’ll let their dance moves speak for themselves, or move for themselves.” Brendan laughs and the auditorium becomes more silent than it’s been all night. “Let’s do it!” Brendan yells, and a cross between a hip-hop and an electronic song blasts through the speakers in every corner of the auditorium.
The lights fade to black except for two white spotlights that are following Abigail and Rose as they body roll toward the audience. The music begins to rise, their bodies shaking faster as the beat quickens. Just before the beat drops, they freeze, Abigail with her butt an inch from the floor and Rose balancing nearly on her head.
The crowd gets very, very silent—and then my phone rings.
“Seriously?” someone yells into the darkness. The beat drops and Abigail and Rose keep going, but they stumble a little.
“Shit.” I reach into my pocket, which is screaming like a newborn baby, but I can’t get the phone out of my jeans without standing up.
Mom is on the screen. I turn it to silent and hit ignore. A second later it’s vibrating in my pocket again. I ignore it until I get the fourth call.
“I hate when Ma just keeps calling like that,” Gene whispers.
It’s not really like that. Mom doesn’t call four times in a row unless—
“Um, actually I should get this. Be right back.” I hop up and stumble in the dark over people’s feet and legs. “Sorry, excuse me,” I mutter as I step on something squishy enough to be a leg but small enough to be a foot. I hurry up the dark aisle and burst into the hallway by the fire extinguisher. Ahead is a bright pink poster with a smiley face that says SAFE SPACE. Liar.
My phone vibrates as it rings a fifth time, and I pull it out of my pocket.
“Mom,” I hiss in lieu of a hello. My hands are sweaty and the phone is hot on my cheek, causing a bit of my shimmery lotion to melt onto the screen. “You called right in the middle of Abigail’s performance, and you just gave me a heart attack because you know I only keep this on for emergencies—”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I hate to do this, but I have to pick you up.” There’s a car horn in the background and some static.
“What, why?”
“The aide just called out, and we’re already short-staffed at work, so I can’t leave. Meet me in front of school. I’ll explain in the car.”
“But, Mom—”
“I said I’ll explain in the car.”
She hangs up. I clench my right fist, which is the stronger of the two, to keep from putting it through the fire extinguisher’s case. It’s not worth getting suspended, or whatever they do to people who play with fire. As I walk toward the entrance of the building, the sounds of the auditorium get farther and farther away. I text Gene.
Be right back C
G Where are you going?
I pause. I don’t want to sound like a weenie who promptly answers every one of her mom’s calls. I need an excuse that makes me seem a little mysterious as opposed to a little breastfed.
I forgot something I need for tonight ;) C
Cheer for Abigail for me C
I cross the metal detectors and hold opposite wrists, starting to dig my fingernails in, when I see my mom’s headlights. I immediately shove my hands in my pockets as she stops outside the sign that declares the Gill School a place of ECSTATIC LEARNING. Gag me with a compostable spork.
I step out the main entrance of the building and into the chilly parking lot, avoiding my mom’s eyes as I slide into the warmth of the car.
“Thanks, Cham, sorry about this,” she says. Before I close the door, I hear a cheer from inside the school, just audible enough to remind me I’m missing something.
As we drive, I scowl out the window and track the moon as it moves imperceptibly slowly through the trees. “I know your night’s just starting, but it shouldn’t be more than an hour before they get a replacement over to the house.” She speeds through an intersection where a yellow light is flashing and I grip my seat belt.
“Senior Night is a once in a lifetime thing, though.”
“I know it is, Cham, but you know what happened last time your dad was home alone at night.”
“But now that he uses his wheelchair all the time, he’s much safer.” My voice breaks as she takes a corner too quickly and my body presses against the hard, indifferent door. “He wouldn’t be able to get into the car now. Besides, he hasn’t driven in a year. There’s no way he’d try to do that ag
ain.”
She takes a sharp inhale of breath and raises her voice. The sound seems to hit the windshield of the car and shatter it. “Please don’t give me this shit right now, Cham. He gets confused. I understand you have a very important schedule, but it’s an hour and then you can get back to your night.”
I look out the window while trying to keep the hot tears out of my eyes.
Begrudging text to Gene sent upon coming to terms with the new reality of my night:
Just had this family thing come up ugh C
G oh noooo
can you tell Abigail I’m sorry I missed her C
G Wait aren’t you coming back?
Yeah, but I gotta go home real quick. I’ll be back in an hour C
G Is everything okay?
It will be. C
G You’re still coming over tonight right?
Ya :) C
By the time we pull into our driveway, the anger has turned to dread. “What if he has to go to the bathroom?” I ask. “I don’t know how to use the plastic thing, and it’s so awkward both of us pretending like this is not what’s happening. Or what if—”
“Relax, Cham, it’ll only be an hour, max.” She unlocks the car doors, but I don’t undo my seat belt. “Come on, I’m going to be late.”
I open the door without looking back at her. I already know what her face is doing—that grimace thing that makes her mouth look small because the world isn’t what she wants it to be. Or I’m not what she wants me to be.
I slam the door harder than necessary, and it echoes off the garage door, along with the sounds of her tires leaving the driveway. When I can’t hear her car anymore, I kick the stone wall in her garden. Then I kick it again. The hurt feels good, but I have to be careful about doing things like that. I don’t want it to get like it got in middle school. The thought of going back to anger management almost sends me back to anger management.
“I’m home,” I yell as I open the front door. The lights are on in the kitchen, but it’s as quiet inside as if no one were home. “Dad?” I call, quickly taking my shoes off and hurrying toward the living room.
“Hey, sweetie.” He wheels into the kitchen just as I’m getting there.
“Hi,” I say, still feeling a bit pouty until I register the look of pain on his face. “Are you okay?”
“I was just looking for some aspirin,” he says, with one hand on his temple. “I have a headache all of a sudden.”
“Oh no. Let’s get you some water.” We both make our way over to the cabinet next to the fridge. His wheels sound like they’re dragging something unidentified behind them across the tile. (Who isn’t dragging something unidentified along behind them?) The chair hits my leg and I stiffen. Relax, Hell Queen, he’s your dad.
“I’m sorry Mom bothered you,” he says as I hand him an aspirin.
“You’re not bothering me.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“Come on. You know I don’t mind.” I get him a glass of water for the aspirin.
“Thanks.” He swallows. “But you don’t have to stay here, Cham. I’m not a baby.”
He takes one more sip, and I put the glass down on the counter more loudly than I mean to. “Dad, you know you can’t stay here by yourself.”
“Mom said to think of it as father-daughter time.”
“It’ll be nice,” I agree, but I’m thinking about Gene and Abigail and Hilary and how this is one of those nights that’s ours, that freshmen and sophomores and juniors know about and wait for, and now it’s happening to me and I’m not there. The refrigerator makes some exasperated throat-clearing noise and I lean against it, looking at my dad. His attention has flickered toward the window again. Whatever universe he’s glimpsing when he slips through that pane of glass, no one else is privy to it.
“So what should we do?” I ask, breaking the silence and looking around the house. There’s a big bookshelf next to the TV, and in the corner of the living room the wooden chessboard is collecting dust mites. The game got too complicated for him around this time last year, but we could try checkers.
“Let’s just relax.” My dad wheels over to the light switch and flicks it a couple of times. Nervous fiddling with things is the most annoying part of this disease; just ask any bad daughter anywhere. “You can heat up some of the soup on the stove, and we’ll eat together and talk. Mom and I just used the restroom, so you won’t have to do that.”
Thank god.
He wheels toward the dining room table and calls over his shoulder, “Afterward I can drive you to your friend’s house.”
I don’t bother reminding him that he doesn’t drive anymore. I take out my phone to text Abigail, but what am I supposed to say? My dad’s situation hasn’t exactly come up since we’ve been friends—not the wheelchair, not the sickness, nothing—and I’m not about to try explaining it with a bunch of emojis. What excuse is good enough that I missed her in Senior Show? The reddish-orange walls are coming for me, and the chandelier and the small circular bulbs embedded in the ceiling. I’ve never been in such a closed space.
Second set of begrudging texts sent to Gene:
Taking longer than expected but be there ASAP C
I don’t wait for Gene to respond. I’d rather not know what’s going on at school. As long as I don’t see my phone, there’s no proof I’m missing something.
“I’m sorry you had to come home,” Dad says quietly. “I’m so useless with this knee.”
“You’re not useless.” On the top of the bookshelf, there’s a picture of him on his motorcycle. I take in this younger version of him: tight jeans (yikes), no helmet, same smile. You’re still that person, I realize, looking over at him, the age showing by his eyes and the disease showing, well, everywhere.
“Get me that blanket, will you?” He points to the woolen plaid shawl on the sofa, and I drape it around him. His shoulders feel smaller than they used to. “Thank you.”
“I’m gonna heat up this soup Mom left, okay?”
He nods and I pretend to have at least a modicum of kitchen skills. The stove clicks on way too eagerly, and I watch for little bubbles to appear in the green split pea soup, like a potion or a swamp with a bunch of dying fish. Every so often I look over at him next to the fake fireplace, where we turn the illusion of coziness on and off with a clicker. His head is drooping. He’s falling asleep.
“Dinner’s ready, Dad,” I call into the silence so silent it hurts my ear canal.
He jolts awake and wheels himself to the table, rubbing his eyes. “I must have dozed off,” he says, gripping the table as soon as he can reach it, and pulling himself forward. I take two ceramic bowls from the cabinet, then think better of it and grab two plastic ones instead.
“It’s um, oh, whaddayacall it?” he mumbles as I set everything down on the table. Word retrieval. Another thing to go.
“Split pea.” I pour some into his bowl. “Have a taste.”
He takes the spoon from me. “I got it,” he says, and immediately spills some on his shirt. This is the sort of thing I’m always trying to avoid, but why? The worst that happens is there’s a mess to clean up, and aren’t we always cleaning something all the time? I jump up and get a wet paper towel.
“There’s someone outside,” my dad says, suddenly wheeling to the window and peering through the curtain. At first I think he’s in that other universe again, but then I hear tires in the driveway.
“Must be the aide!” I do an about-face and charge for the door. Sweet, sweet freedom.
I turn the outside light on and peek through the window by the door. With my hand to it, I can feel the chill of the night and its freedoms. I squint at the walkway, where a pair of sneakers is visible. They are not the white marshmallowish clogs the aides wear. They are boy sneakers. The figure comes into view, and that’s when I realize it’s not the aide. It’s Gene.
10
Days ’til prom: Still 51
IN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT SITUATIONS, I’M THE SORT OF ANIMAL TH
AT neither fights nor flights. Instead I shut down and sweat enough to solve the global water crisis, if only I could figure out how to harness my potential.
“Be right back,” I call to my dad, throwing his blue puffy mail carrier jacket on. By the time I crack open the door, Gene is already up the stairs and on the porch, his face holding a smile for me.
“Hey,” he starts tentatively, but I dart behind the door and slam it shut. Uh-oh. “Cham?”
“Hey,” I say, opening the door just a crack.
“What’s up?” His eyebrows are raised, and there’s an army of question marks in his voice.
“Nothing.”
He peers around me curiously. “Can I come in?” He steps forward into the doorway, and I draw the door closed on his foot. “Ow!”
“Sorry, let’s just stay out here.” I squeeze through the door and lurch forward into his arms, more or less plowing into him so that he’ll back up a bit. “Hi.” I tuck my chin inside the coat’s collar. It smells faintly of my dad’s cologne and that stale, moldy smell of closets holding things that haven’t been used. I’m like a turtle, but sadder and not as cute. “Sorry to disappear like that. I’m having, uh, a family thing.”
“Yeah, I got your texts. What’s going on?” he asks, pulling away from me to peer nosily into the house. “Cham?”
“Sorry, um, I can’t really explain right now.”
“Are you okay? You’re acting really weird.” The question gets picked up by the wind and rustles through my hair. “We could go inside and—”
“No,” I say quickly, and back up to the door. “You can’t come in.”
“Is something going on in there?” he asks suspiciously. He steps around me and peers into the glass on the side of the door with his hand shielding his eyes and leaving a smudge on the pane.
“No, just fucking stop.” I grab his arm and yank him a little harder than I mean to.
“Whoa,” he says, backing away from me with his hands up. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”
Dear Universe Page 9
