The dog tilts his head curiously, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m for real or not. For a second I panic, thinking he’s not going to come. Thinking I misremembered the phrase and actually told him he was a disgusting dog who licks himself too much. But then I remember the treats I hid in my bag. Watts said she got them at the farmers’ market, so I made a special trip on the way over here. I had to zigzag frantically through all the stalls, asking each vendor if they sold organic duck treats for dogs, but eventually I found them.
I reach into my bag and pull out a long strip of dried meat. Klaus’s ears immediately perk up when he smells it.
“Willst du ein Leckerli?” I ask the dog if he wants a treat.
Klaus lets out a small whimper of excitement and darts toward me, leaping onto my lap and devouring the treat. I hesitantly reach out and pat his head. He seems to be okay with this. Actually, he leans into my hand and starts rubbing his head against it like a cat.
Meanwhile, Watts is sitting in the chair across from me, looking stunned.
“My best friend has a dog,” I lie. “She loves these organic duck treats so I always have a few on hand.”
“I … I,” Watts stutters. “I’ve never seen him do that with anyone. He’s normally so averse to new people.”
I smile and try to act like this kind of thing happens all the time. Like I’m just a natural German-speaking dog whisperer. “Well, what can you do? I’m a dog person!” I turn to Klaus. “Sitz!”
He sits. I give him another treat and he lies down next to me and goes to work on it.
Watts continues to stare. “And you speak German? I didn’t see that on your application.”
I tilt my head, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Oh? I must have forgotten to include it. It feels like such second nature to me sometimes, I almost forget that not everyone speaks it.”
Okay, scale it back a notch, Kennedy.
That might be taking things a bit far. The last thing I need is for her to want to conduct the entire interview in …
“Wo haben Sie Deutsch gelernt?” Watts asks.
Crap.
Time to change the subject. Fast. I glance around the living room, looking for something else to talk about. Something to get her mind off the German thing. My eyes light up when they fall upon the potted plant next to me.
“Wow!” I exclaim, pointing to it. “Is that a Ceropegia woodii?”
Watts’s mouth falls open and a strangled, shocked gasp gurgles out. “It is,” she finally manages to utter. “I can’t believe you knew that. Hardly anyone outside of South Africa knows what that is.”
I wave my hand at this, as if to say, Well, everyone is stupid. Except for us. “I’m just fascinated by Swaziland horticulture.”
She balks at this. “You are?”
“Oh, sure. All horticulture, actually. But especially the Swaziland kind.”
“Have you ever been?”
I sigh. “Unfortunately, no. Not yet anyway. But you know, journalists get to travel all over the world, so maybe one day I’ll get to cover a story in South Africa.”
She gives me a strange look, like now I’m the one speaking a foreign language. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she grabs the folder from the coffee table and flips it open. I watch anxiously as her eyes graze over my application.
“Journalist? But I thought you were applying to be an economics major.”
Economics major?
That can’t be right. She must have the wrong application. It must be someone else’s. Without thinking, I reach out and grab the folder from her, turning it around so I can read the name on top.
My entire body goes numb and the folder nearly slips from my grasp.
There it is. My name.
“B-b-but…” I stammer, my eyes whizzing over the rest of the page. Everything else is correct. My birthday. My address. My phone number. But on the line that reads “Intended Major,” someone has typed …
“Economics,” I read aloud, the word feeling fat and awkward on my lips.
Why would I write that? I hate economics. I had to take Intro to Micro-Economics last year and I almost failed. Okay, I almost got a B, but still. I despised every second of that class.
I’m applying to Columbia for journalism. That’s what I’ve been working so hard for. Ever since …
My thoughts trail off as the reality of the situation sinks in.
I never went to Southwest High.
I never stumbled into that newspaper office.
I never became the editor in chief of the Southwest Star.
I never applied to be a journalism major.
I stare vacantly at the application in my hands. At the line that says, quite clearly, “economics.”
I typed that. I inserted that into the application. That was my choice.
It’s all been my choice.
My gaze flickers farther down the page to the line that says “Name of High School” and the very crisp black letters that follow it.
The Windsor Academy
Also my choice.
It was the better choice. I’m sure of it. I’m still sure of it.
Except, suddenly, I feel a strange anxiety bloom in my stomach. That gross, sticky feeling that something isn’t right. That something is off.
Doubt.
I recognize it almost immediately. It fueled me for so long. It became part of my daily existence. Part of my identity.
And now it’s back.
“Excuse me,” Watts says, looking slightly confused as she reaches out and removes the folder from my death grip. “I’m just gonna take that back now.”
I blink and focus on her. On the room. On the dog. On my purpose here at this very moment.
Stop, I command myself. This is your chance to make things right. To redeem yourself. Don’t blow it on a feeling that will probably go away in a few hours.
So what if I wrote economics on my application? It’s still the same school. It’s still the same dream. I can just change my major after I get in.
If I get in.
I straighten up in my seat and refresh my composed smile.
“Sorry about that,” I say professionally, feeding Klaus another duck treat from my bag. “Where were we?”
Watts gives me another inquisitive look but then eases back into interviewer mode. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you want to go to Columbia?”
I take a deep breath, trying to ooze confidence and togetherness. I’m going to have to work extra hard to make up for that mini-cuckoo breakdown.
I clear my throat. “Well, I want to be a journalist—” I stop, quickly amending my answer. “An economics … um … person. And Columbia has one of the best economics programs in the country. Plus, I’m a huge fan of the East Coast and the significance that the city of New York has played in our nation’s history.”
I watch Watts’s reaction carefully. She nods and makes a note in my file.
So far, so good.
“Well, it’s obvious you’re quite accomplished. I mean, top of your class at Windsor, Robotics Club, Investment Club, French Club, Young Entrepreneurs Club, student fund-raising captain.” She pauses to take a dramatic breath.
I chuckle modestly. “Yes, I’ve been a little busy.”
“You must have had to make some sacrifices in order to do all of that. What would you say is your biggest regret thus far?”
I take a deep breath. That’s right. The regret question. It’s what sent me off the deep end the last time around.
Well, not this time.
This is my moment. It’s time to get my life back on track.
I clear my throat and infuse my voice with a cool, calm confidence, accessing the pre-scripted answer I spent so long writing and perfecting.
“My biggest regret is probably working too hard and not taking enough time for myself. You see, I’m the editor—” I stop and restart. “I mean, I’m a member of all those clubs you mentioned, plus the student fund-raising captain for
the school. And although I’m very proud of these accomplishments, success comes at a price, and I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of free time to do fun things. But I hear they have this great new invention called television now.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I made it. I did it. I finished the answer without going psycho. Watts even laughs at the last part.
See? This is what happens when you don’t let your cheating ex-boyfriend and backstabbing ex–best friend get in the way.
You can actually succeed at your college alumni interview.
Ten minutes later after I’ve knocked five more questions out of the park, Watts closes the folder on her lap and returns it to the coffee table. “Well, that was terrific. Just terrific. You clearly have Columbia written all over you.”
Butterflies start flapping eagerly in my stomach. “Really? Thank you!”
“And Klaus certainly agrees,” she adds with a laugh, nodding to the sleeping white lump of fur curled up against my leg. “With credentials like yours, you’re practically a shoo-in. I can’t see any reason why you wouldn’t get in. I’ll be submitting my passionate recommendation for acceptance to the admissions office.”
Then I Open the Basement Door
By the time I burst through the garage door and into the house, the news is practically bubbling out of my mouth. I toss the car keys in the air and yell, “I’m going to Columbia!”
But then I see my mom’s grim expression and I immediately lower my hands, the car keys dropping to the floor with a clank.
She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen with her briefcase in her hand like she’s ready to go somewhere and she’s glaring at me. Eighteen years of living in the same house with the same parents is enough to know when you’re in trouble. And I’m definitely in trouble. Although I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why.
“Did you take my car?” she accuses.
“No,” I reply meekly.
Her death glare doesn’t let up. “Oh really? Then why wasn’t it in the garage when I was called down to the office for an important meeting with a client and had no way to get there?”
“I-I-” I stammer, glancing at the keys on the floor by my feet. I suddenly understand how suspected criminals wrongfully accused of murder must feel when the judge glowers down at them. “I … I took my car.”
She snorts at this, like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Your car?”
“Yes,” I say defensively. What part of that didn’t she understand?
She throws her phone into her briefcase. “You know what? I don’t have time to deal with this right now. I have a roomful of angry partners downtown wondering where I am.” She stalks toward me, bends down, and scoops the keys up from the floor.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I try to say, even though I don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m apologizing for. I just know that when Mom is in a mood like this, you apologize. Fast.
Although to be honest, I haven’t seen her this angry in a really long time. Sure, she’s the volatile parent of the two of them, but Dad always seems to know when she’s reaching the end of her rope. It’s his superpower. And he’s always there to feed her more rope.
“We’ll talk about it when I get home,” she barks, stomping down the hallway toward the garage. “Make dinner for your brother!”
Then the garage door slams, making me jump.
For a long time, I stand there in stunned silence. What just happened? Did she not hear me? Did she not understand what I said? I just told her I was going to Columbia and she acted like I announced I had decided to become a heroin addict.
I’m so confused.
And why do I have to make dinner for Frankie? Is Dad still holed up in the basement? I turn toward the closed door, feeling a small shiver run up my arms.
Something feels really wrong. Like I’m missing a big piece of the picture and nothing is adding up anymore.
My dad has been down there in that basement for more than two days and I haven’t heard so much as a floor squeak. Has he come out to eat? Is he still alive down there? And why do I seem to be the only one who even cares?
I drop my bag on the floor and walk toward the basement door, resting my hand tentatively on the knob. If he really is hard at work, he’s not going to be thrilled about me barging in on him. When you’re in the zone, the last thing you want is to be pulled out. But this is kind of important.
I mean, an alumni interviewer from Columbia University just told me that she’s going to recommend me for admission. That’s a pretty big deal, right?
He would want me to interrupt him for this. I know it.
I inhale a decisive breath and yank on the handle, flinching at the creaking noise the door makes. It sounds like it hasn’t been opened in months.
“Dad?” I call as I start down the stairs.
But the deeper I go into the bowels of our house, the more my stomach starts to tangle in knots. It’s really dark down here.
Has he set up some kind of photography darkroom?
“Dad?” I say again, but there’s no response.
Did he fall asleep?
I fumble for the panel of light switches on the wall. There are six switches, one for each of the professional photography lights and one for the overhead light.
But my hand brushes against cold concrete.
C’mon, I tell myself with a flash of annoyance. It’s around here somewhere.
I turn on the flashlight app on my phone and swing it around the wall. Left, right, up, down, all the way to the ground. But there’s nothing. The wall is bare.
With panic squeezing my chest, I wave the flashlight around the dark basement, getting brief glimpses of unidentifiable objects and grotesque shadows. I spot a string hanging from the ceiling and pull on it.
A single bulb illuminates the room and I suck in a sharp breath as my phone slips from my grasp and lands on the concrete floor.
It’s not just that my dad isn’t in his studio.
There is no studio.
Then My World Flips Upside Down
I remember the day my dad announced he was going to turn the basement into a photography studio. He was loading the dishwasher after dinner and my mom had just gotten home from a long day in court. She was gobbling up leftover chili, Frankie was sitting at the counter drawing, and I was multitasking, as usual: helping Dad with the dishes, texting with Austin about our weekend plans, and sending a mass email to the newspaper staff about our next issue.
It was three years ago. I was still a freshman.
There was no buildup or segue or transition. One minute there was the sound of Mom desperately trying to get food into her overworked system, and the next minute Dad was saying, “I think I’m going to remodel the basement.”
“Oh?” Mom asked, looking up from her half-empty chili bowl. “For what?”
“I want to dedicate myself full time to the Portals project.”
“I love that idea!” I chimed in.
“Hey,” Frankie protested, dropping his pencil. “Full time? What about us?”
Dad laughed. “Okay, three-quarters time.”
“Three-fifths time,” Frankie countered.
“Six-eighths time,” was Dad’s response.
But Frankie was not fooled. He hardly ever is. He crossed his arms. “That’s the same as three-quarters.”
Mom and I both stifled a laugh.
Dad looked defeated. “Three-fifths it is.”
Satisfied that he had won the negotiation, Frankie resumed drawing.
“Anyway,” Dad went on. “I want to sell a bunch of our old stuff and consolidate all those boxes to give myself more room. I can use that entire space as a studio with lights and backdrops and a small desk to set up my laptop.”
Mom nodded with a mouthful of chili. “I wuv it,” she mumbled, then swallowed. “It would be good for you to have your own space.”
“Exactly.”
“I can help,” I offered, as I scrubbed down a plate and h
anded it to Dad.
He beamed at me as he put it in the dishwasher. “That’d be great.”
“We can build a special shelf just for Magnum,” I suggested.
“Shelf?” Dad repeated with mock disgust. “There’ll be no shelf. He needs a shrine.”
I rolled my eyes and deadpanned, “Oh right. What on earth was I thinking?”
“Clearly, you weren’t.”
Then I flung a handful of soapy water at him.
* * *
I blink into the dreary, low light of the basement as a cloud of confusion settles over me. Where is everything? It’s like all of our hard work three years ago has been erased. The rickety shelves full of dusty boxes are still attached to the wall where Dad’s desk should be. Mom’s old treadmill is still sitting untouched in the corner with a bunch of junk piled up on the runner.
We sold that treadmill. I remember!
An adorable newlywed couple from Craigslist came and picked it up. They argued over which room in their new house it should go in.
Yet, there it is. Like it never left.
And that ancient cracked leather recliner that Dad used to have in his bachelor pad before he met Mom is still here, too. Even though I distinctly remember the dump truck coming to pick it up. Mom said it was the happiest day of her life. Dad went into mourning for five hours.
Through the dust and clutter, I spot a box on one of the shelves that says “Danny’s Photos” and run over to it. I pull it down, crouch on the ground, and tear open the flaps. It’s filled with Dad’s early photography. The pictures he took on the road when he traveled with his band during his “edgy phase,” the pictures he took of Mom in the first few months of their relationship, and the pictures he took of Frankie and me as kids.
I tilt the almost-empty box to see what else is in there and freeze when I notice what’s lining the bottom. My breathing grows shallow as I reach inside and pull out the first few photos of Dad’s Portals project. They’re yellowed and dirty and some of the paper is bent in the corners, but there’s no denying it. I’d recognize my mother’s eye anywhere.
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 15
