Tangled

by Carolyn Mackler

  A few minutes later, my mom came upstairs.

  “You okay?” she asked, hovering in the doorway.

  I took my music out of one ear. “What do you think?”

  My mom sighed. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  “You’re seriously leaving me here?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I said, shoving my earphone back in.

  My mom closed the door and went to her car.

  At dinner that night, Pauline stabbed a leaf of lettuce. “You’re looking more and more like your father,” she said, angling her fork into her mouth.

  That’s all we were eating, by the way. Lettuce with steamed broccoli and tofu. No wonder Bill was such a wuss. I should take him out for a burger while I’m here.

  “I hear you’re going to Fredonia,” Pauline said after a minute.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Good school,” Bill said.

  “But not the best,” Pauline added.

  “Of course not. If you’re going for the best state,” Bill said, “it’s got to be Cornell’s ag school.”

  After dinner, Bill served us leftover birthday cake. As Pauline licked her final dab of frosting, she said, “You didn’t call me yesterday.”

  “I had other things going on,” I said. And then, for some reason, I added, “It was my girlfriend’s birthday.”

  Pauline set down her fork. “You have a new girlfriend already? I thought your girlfriend died.”

  “No,” I said quietly. “It was the dead one’s birthday.”

  Pauline and Bill looked at each other and then, without another word, cleared their plates, piled them into the sink, and retreated to the TV room.

  eight

  Talk about exile. Knolls Landing was so far off the grid I didn’t even get cell phone reception. Not that I wanted to spill my soul to anyone, but it might have been nice to text a few guys, see if we won against Spencerport. I had my computer with me, but I couldn’t look up the game because they didn’t have Internet access here. Fucking Dark Ages.

  I actually needed to get online because I was supposed to email my homework assignments to a few teachers who don’t understand that the sole perk of suspension is the break from school. I barely cared about grades at this point, but the last thing I wanted was for an F to wreck my chances of going to Fredonia. I told my grandparents about the homework and suggested maybe I could borrow their car and drive into town, find someplace that has wireless.

  “No way,” Pauline said. “Not after the trouble you got into back home.”

  That’s when Bill dug this ancient fax machine out of a downstairs closet. “Fax it in,” he said in his typical monotone.

  “Do you have a printer here?” I asked.

  Bill shook his head.

  “But I’d have to print out my homework to fax it in,” I said.

  “Guess you’ll be handwriting your assignments,” Pauline said, clucking her tongue.

  I made a face.

  “Your generation,” Pauline said as she retrieved two yellow slickers from the hall closet, “is way too dependent on technology. It’s frightening, really.”

  I wanted to tell her that she was the frightening one here, but before I could respond she was already out the door.

  This was Wednesday. It had been raining since Saturday night. A cold, driving rain with no end in sight. At first, it hadn’t mattered that the weather was shitty because my knee was still wrecked from the fight with Timon and my biceps were still pulled from lifting too much. After a few days, though, I felt much better. But the rain was coming down so hard I could barely step outside without getting soaked.

  My grandparents, however, couldn’t be stopped. Every morning at nine fifteen, Pauline and Bill donned identical raincoats, boots, and waterproof hats and embarked on a power walk. Their whole joined-at-the-hip thing was freaky. They spooned up their bran cereal together, read the newspaper, went on their walk, ate their lunch, took their nap, watched their shows—and never once invited me to join them. The only thing we all did was dinner, and even then they mainly talked to each other. It’s not like I’m the guest of honor at my dad’s house, but it was strange to feel so unwelcome. My mom was their only child, growing up in nearby Syracuse. I had to wonder if she felt this way too.

  The days were long in Knolls Landing. I watched whatever I could find on their four staticky channels. I wrote out my homework until my fingers were indented, and then faxed it into school. For the rest of the time, I lay on the bed listening to music. That’s when my stomach burned the worst.

  Mostly, as I lay there, I wondered about Natalie and Jake, about that poem Timon had begun reciting when I slugged him. I could only remember one part, something about “feeling the flowers,” whatever that means. Part of me wanted to know the rest. I wanted to know what Natalie could say to Jake that she couldn’t say to me. I knew it would fuck me up even more, but not knowing was worse.

  If I had wireless, I could find it in a second. Natalie’s friends have this tribute blog for her, all these pictures and even some videos of her at cheering competitions. Gina Robinson told me they were going to post coverage of the ceremony. I’m sure they’ve added…what did Timon call the poem? “For Jake.” I’m sure they’ve added “For Jake” by now.

  So now the whole world can read Natalie’s poem and see how she was in love with Jake Kulowski while she was going out with me. Everyone’s probably laughing their asses off at me right now. And here I am, unable to defend myself, banished to the rainy fucking Dark Ages from hell.

  On Wednesday night, as Bill did the dishes, Pauline pulled out an old photo album. I was sitting across from her at the dining-room table, spearing the last of my green beans and bemoaning to myself how this is worse than weight-dropping during wrestling season. For a second, as I looked at the leather-bound album, I thought, Oh, wow, a grandmother moment.

  “Here he is,” Pauline pronounced as she landed on the last page of the album.

  “Who?” All I could see were a bunch of upside-down faces.

  “The man your mom should have married.”

  I looked over at Bill but he was turned toward the sink.

  “Henry Ruderman.” Pauline rotated the album around so I could see the photos. “Melinda went out with him for two years at Colgate. We really thought he was the one.”

  I glanced at the pictures. Nothing special. Just a younger version of my mom posing next to some guy with fluffy blond hair.

  “He became a corporate lawyer in Albany,” Pauline added.

  By that, she basically meant: Not a cop like your dad.

  “You know,” Pauline said, “the whole thing with your father was a mistake from start to finish.”

  “Except some mistakes,” Bill said as he turned off the faucet, “you simply can’t reverse.”

  “Exactly,” Pauline said, closing the album.

  I stared at both of them. Natalie used to tell me I was an asshole. I probably was sometimes, but maybe I couldn’t help it. My parents have asshole tendencies. My grandparents are definite assholes. Maybe there was just no escaping my genes.

  Late Wednesday night, the rain finally stopped. On Thursday morning, Pauline and Bill took a power walk and then loaded canvas bags into their trunk. Thursday, they informed me, they drive into town. First a trip to the library, then the co-op for vitamins, then the grocery store.

  After they left, I settled at the kitchen table. I had to finish an assignment for politics in government. My handwriting sucks, so I kept making mistakes, crumpling up the paper, and starting again. Finally, I rammed my fist against the table and went in search of Wite-Out.

  I was rifling through a desk drawer when the phone rang. I glanced down. No caller ID here in the Dark Ages. I hesitated for a second before picking up.

  “Hello?”

  “Dakota?” my brother’s voice asked.

  “Owen? Why are you calling here?”

  “I have a free
period at school. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I tried your cell and it’s off.”

  “You called to see how I’m doing?” I asked. Owen and I never talk on the phone. And in person, it’s nothing more than pass the ketchup, where’s the remote, it’s my turn to take a shower. He isn’t the most social person in the world. And I’m not exactly gunning for one of those tight, brotherly friendships.

  “I just thought it might be sucking there,” Owen said.

  “It’s definitely sucking.”

  “They shouldn’t have sent you to Pauline and Bill’s. You got suspended and climbed the locks. It’s not like you murdered anyone.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling shittier by the second. “I can’t believe my life has come to this.”

  “That reminds me of this quote I recently heard. Hold on…let me look…” Owen paused and I could hear him clicking at his laptop. “Here it is. ‘Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.’ By some guy named Max Ehrmann. I think it’s supposed to mean that even though things suck right now, it’s all going to be okay in the end.”

  “You sound like a chick when you recite quotes,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I was in a lousy mood and my brother stepped smack into the middle of it. Also, he was being too pushy with the life advice, like he was suddenly going wise on me.

  “I sort of liked it,” Owen said. “I heard it from a friend.”

  “A real friend or someone online?”

  “I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Don’t.”

  Neither of us said anything. After a moment, Owen said, “I’ve got a class in a few minutes. I better go.”

  “Me too.”

  We quickly said good-bye and both hung up.

  nine

  That afternoon, I ran hard. I went down the stairs that lead to the lake, all the way to the end of the gravel road, up the steep hill, back down the hill. Once I reached the lake again, I picked up my speed and began sprinting. The lower road was lined with cabins, but there were only a few cars parked out front. Most of the houses were boarded up. As I ran, I looked out at the lake. It was muddy near the shoreline, but farther out it was blue and sparkling. On the other side of the road were woods and ravines. I remembered hiking in those woods when I was younger. My dad would bring me out there when my grandparents were driving him crazy.

  It felt good to be running again, to have my heart pumping. I was just nearing the end of the road when this barefoot little kid, maybe two or three years old, came cruising around the side of a cabin, stumbled in the yard, and fell down.

  I stopped quickly. “Are you okay?”

  The kid stared at me with huge brown eyes. At first I couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or a girl, but then, as it wobbled up again, I noticed nail polish on her toenails, every color of the rainbow.

  I pulled my iPod out of my ears. “Are you okay?”

  She kept staring at me, but didn’t say a word. She had wild black hair, a combination of braids and dreads, and she was wearing an oversized T-shirt.

  “Are your parents around?” I asked.

  All of a sudden, I heard a voice shouting, “Dewey! Dewey!”

  A second later, a light-skinned black woman emerged from the side of the house, spotted us, and said, “There you are, Dew. It looks like you’ve found a friend.”

  Then she glanced over at me. “Sorry,” she said. “He was chasing a butterfly and he took off on me.”

  “He?” I asked, gesturing toward his toenails.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, smiling. “It’s just the two of us out here. We like to have fun.”

  She was probably in her mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a white undershirt with no bra underneath. I could see the outline of her nipples, full and dark.

  “I haven’t seen you around before,” she said as she scooped up the kid and positioned him on her hip.

  “I’m just here for a week,” I said. “I’m staying on the upper road.”

  “I’ve been renting this place all winter. You’re probably the first person under sixty I’ve seen on the road since January. I’m Shasta, by the way.”

  “I’m Dakota.”

  “Cool name,” she said.

  “You too.”

  Shasta grinned at me. “Thanks for watching out for Dewey.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “He’s cute.”

  “Just like his mama, right?” she said, nuzzling his forehead.

  I fitted my earphones back in.

  “Have a nice run,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “See you.”

  “Yeah, see you.”

  I waved good-bye and kept on running. As I neared the bend in the road, I turned to see if I could catch another glimpse, but they were out of sight.

  The next afternoon, I ran by Shasta’s cabin again. She wasn’t there as I passed. But when I circled back, I spotted her sitting at a table on the deck.

  “Hey, Dakota!” She stood up and headed toward me. But then, all of a sudden, she tripped and went flying forward. I started up the stairs, but before I could catch her, she grabbed onto the railing.

  “Damn,” she said, steadying herself.

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s this stupid board.” She kicked her sandal at a two-by-four protruding from the rest of the deck. “I’ve asked the owners to fix it and they never seem to get out here. I’ve tried nailing it myself but it won’t stay down.”

  “It’s probably rotten,” I said, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my hand.

  “Probably.” Shasta pulled her braids into a ponytail. “Want to come up for a while, have something to drink?”

  “Where’s…” I paused. I couldn’t remember her kid’s name.

  “Dewey’s napping. He went down an hour ago.”

  I wrapped my earphones around my iPod and followed her across the deck, past a toy truck and a faded plastic rocking horse. She gestured at the table where she’d been sitting. It had an empty coffee cup, a stack of books, and an ashtray with a scattering of cigarette butts.

  “What do you want to drink?” Shasta asked as I settled into a chair. “Soda? Beer?”

  “You have beer?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” I lied. I hadn’t shaved since Monday, but even so, I doubted I could pass for twenty-one.

  “You won’t tell anyone?”

  I glanced down the empty road. “Who’s there to tell?”

  “Hang on.” Shasta grabbed her mug and slid open the glass door.

  When she returned, she handed me a Budweiser. Then she sat next to me, set some black coffee in front of her, and moved the ashtray over to the railing.

  “I don’t usually smoke,” she said. “I never do it in front of Dewey.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Shasta sighed. “It was a long night.”

  I checked out her face. She was pretty, but her mouth was drawn and she had circles under her eyes.

  “I had one of those conversations with Dewey’s dad,” Shasta said after a moment. “We were on the phone for three hours.”

  I cracked the beer. “You’re not together anymore?”

  “Not for two years.”

  “How old is Dewey?”

  “He’ll be two in July.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.” Shasta reached into her pocket for her cigarette pack. “Do you mind?”

  “Nah.”

  She moved the ashtray back to the table and held the cigarette between her lips. As she raised the lighter, she said, “So what are you doing here this week?”

  “It’s sort of…it’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t everything?” Shasta said, laughing.

  Shasta smoked her cigarette and I drank my beer and we talked about running and the rain and how the lake is still too cold for swimming. But then Shasta sipped some coffee and said, “You know, it pisses me off. A mother would never leave her child. But a
dad feels like he can walk away and never look back. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded, but I was actually thinking the opposite about me. When my parents divorced, my mom said she could only handle one of us. She picked Owen to move into Rochester with her, which meant I wound up with my dad.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Shasta said. “Mostly I’m fine out here. But sometimes it’s things like that stupid board.” Shasta swallowed hard. “Whatever. Don’t let me get too deep or anything.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s fine.”

  “Sometimes it just helps to bitch about it.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, even though that’s definitely not my style, to spill for the sake of spilling.

  “Where do you go to school?” Shasta asked.

  “Brockport,” I said vaguely. There’s a SUNY in town, after all. I didn’t have to mention I was at the high school. “What about you? Are you in school?”

  “Cornell,” Shasta said. “I’m getting my PhD in statistics. Or at least trying to. It’s impossible to write my dissertation with…you know…” Shasta gestured in the direction of her house. “I think my adviser is about to give up on me and, honestly, I don’t blame her.”

  “So you’re seriously smart,” I said, grinning. “Like one of those genius types.”

  Shasta shook her head. “I’ve just seriously done the right thing my entire life. Until I got pregnant and my boyfriend ditched me and now I’m way overdue on my dissertation. When Cornell cuts my funding I have no idea how I’m going to pay for—” Shasta took another drag on her cigarette. “There I go, getting deep again.”

  I downed some beer and didn’t say anything.

  “Where are you staying up here?” Shasta asked.

  When I described my grandparents, she asked if they were that power-walk couple.

  I nodded. “With the matching raingear.”

  “They’re not exactly friendly, are they?” Shasta asked. “I’ve been trying to figure out whether they’re racist, or just plain don’t like people.”

  “Don’t like people,” I said. “With me at the top of their list.”