Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  I know she’s doing normal stuff: making out, wailing on her bassoon, drinking her parents’ wine with Toni or Lotte—girls who were fine subsidiary friends when Olls and I were a unit. They’re now competitors who are encroaching on my Ollie territory.

  Which I’m reluctant to admit may not be very mine anymore.

  Then, like magic, my phone rings, and I’m excited…

  Until I see the picture on the screen.

  “Jasper!” I whine over his laugh.

  “Bonjour, petite soeur. Où est notre mère?” Jasper is a full-fledged Parisian, every twist in his accent is parfait. My Spanish is decent, but my French is spotty at best. Any other teen would be applauded for bilingualism, but I have to come from a family of linguistic brainiacs.

  “Je ne sais pas. Je ne m’inquiète pas.” That sums up my present truth: I don’t know where our mother is, and I don’t care.

  “Ne sois pas une enfante,” Jasper chides. My brother thinks I constantly act like a toddler, but I think he’s been acting like a curmudgeon since he was in elementary school.

  “Pas plus de français,” I bite out, asking him to switch out of French so we can communicate in the language I argue in best. I’m not about to be aggravated and searching for the right French word to use against my aggravating brother.

  “Fine,” he sighs. “Your accent is terrible. You need to converse more, Aggie. How’s your Spanish? Is Mama Patria still letting you answer her in English?”

  “No te preocupe, to’ta frío,” I say, imitating our aspiring-DJ cousin, Antony, from DR, who manages to drive Jasper crazy every time he opens his mouth.

  “Tu si eres baboso,” he says, accusing me of talking crap.

  “Y tu hiede a chinchilín.” Yes, it’s immature and inaccurate to tell him he stinks, but Jasper truly brings out the bratty little sister in me.

  “You really need to work on something other than insults and slang, Ag. Our baby cousins could speak better than you when we went to the Santo Domingo last year.”

  “When did you become the commandant of languages?” I gripe. “Do you know how many Dominican friends I had who spoke no Spanish? Stop acting like I’m bringing shame on all Dominican Americans. Isn’t it, like—” I pull my phone back and check the international clock “—two in the morning your time? Is something wrong?”

  “You really have moved to the backwoods. I didn’t even eat dinner yet here. Nothing’s wrong. I just missed my maman and baby sister. Is that okay?” Jasper clears his throat. “So, you’re really going to graduate from high school in Georgia?” He says the state name with the same horror people use when they say Gulag labor camp or Siberian prison.

  “What choice do I have?” I fall back on my bed and kick my heels on the mattress like I used to when I threw a tantrum as a kid. I’m too old to do that kind of crap anymore, but sometimes I wish I wasn’t.

  “You could live with Mama Patria, like we all thought you were going to. Finish at Newington.”

  “That was an impossible commute, Jasper. Everyone’s saying this is the worst winter in decades. That means spring storms too. I wouldn’t have gotten back to her place until after dark… Not safe. Trust me, if there was a way, I’d be there. I would’ve loved to have finished at Newington. It just wasn’t possible.”

  “I know you think Newington’s just some artsy little school, but competition to get into that place is pretty fierce. A diploma from there would mean a lot.”

  I actually check to see if I accidentally put my phone on mute.

  “Right, but I can’t graduate from Newington.” Plunk, bounce, plunk, bounce. My ankles hit the mattress and bounce off the springs over and over. “Don’t worry. A diploma from Ebenezer High won’t tank my bright, shiny future.”

  I wish Jasper would accidentally put his phone on mute.

  “Aggie…” My brother wears his older sibling responsibility like an albatross around his neck. You’d think getting himself through one of NYC’s premier high schools, then getting accepted into the Ivy Leagues, and then to the mythical Sorbonne would have been enough for one crazy overachiever, but no. He’s got to take the rudder on my life too.

  “Jasper, I’m going to be fine. I’m not even sure I’m going straight to college. Maybe I’ll backpack through Europe for a year or something.”

  I was wrong. There is something that relieves stress better than kicking my mattress: poking at my big brother.

  “Jésus, you’re not serious? If you want to be a Euro-trash bum, just shack up here. We have an extra room and Dad misses you, Aggie. You’ve barely called since the move.”

  “I can’t come to France unless I’m enrolled in school. I asked Dad about using his place as a base for a gap year of traveling, and he shot me down cold.”

  “He worries that if you take a year off, you’ll never wind up going to college.” Jasper pauses, sighs, and says, “You really need to call Dad. There’s something he needs to tell you, and he’s stalling.”

  A stab of panic jolts through me. “Is Dad sick?”

  “No, nothing like that… Just, trust me, you need to have a talk with him. Please, call.”

  “I will.” I wonder what the thing Dad needs to talk to me about is, but I’m willing to bet it has to do with college, and I can’t listen to that endlessly looped conversation again. I never told him that I didn’t apply to any of the Ivies like he asked me to. What was the point when I knew I’d never want to go to any of them?

  My father has never accepted that I’m not the academic star Jasper is. Dad truly believes that I’m so much smarter and more capable than I am. I hate to disappoint him, so it’s easier to avoid him.

  “Good. You two are overdue for a talk. He misses you and Mom. She hasn’t been calling much either.”

  This time, Jasper doesn’t even dive into a lecture about what a crappy daughter I am.

  He probably knows I’m well aware.

  What Jasper seems blind to is what happened between Mom and Dad after our big Thanksgiving trip to Paris. A few weeks before the trip, a guy Mom really liked showed up at the apartment with a bouquet of hydrangeas—her favorite—and she shooed him away. The week before we left, she bought a sexier wardrobe, got her hair done at this incredible salon, and had a new batch of Dad’s favorite perfume made. While they were together in the City of Lights, it seemed like…things were going well. Really well.

  And then, when it all fell apart for reasons I’m still not clear on, that weasel was waiting. The night our plane landed she went out with some faculty. I thought it was crazy she’d go out that jet-lagged, but also kind of badass. And good for her.

  She didn’t come home until morning. Wash, rinse repeat for a week…and then one fat-fingered digital mistake and…bam. Life unraveled fast and hard.

  What happened between Thanksgiving and New Year’s? What part did my father play? I don’t want to call him and find out I have reason to be pissed at him too. It’s exhausting enough being so furious at Mom.

  “Right. Well, with the time difference and all…”

  He keeps his mouth shut, but the guilt gnaws at me.

  I think about all the rage I’m directing at my mother. I don’t want to get all armchair psychologist on myself, but it occurs to me that she might not deserve all the anger I’m throwing her way.

  People screw up. Daughters who love their fathers don’t reach out and call. Best friends don’t keep in touch like they should. A girl might be falling head over heels for a solid, good guy, but she pushes him away instead of opening up, because it’s all so damn scary.

  “You know Dad’s a night owl. That’s one of the only things the four of us have in common.” My brother takes optimism to stupid levels.

  “Right. Only there isn’t any ‘four of us’ anymore.” I attempt to deflate his stupid shiny happy bubble, which is only fair since he’s always trying to get me to “wake up,” “live in the real world,” “get my head out of the clouds,” yada yada.

  “Of course th
ere is,” he insists. “It doesn’t matter that they’re divorced or with other people or whatever. They’ll always be our parents. We’ll always be a family. And we’re lucky our parents actually acted like adults when they split. That’s pretty rare.”

  “You’ve got some crazy rose-colored glasses on, Jasper.”

  “You need to get out of this emo stage you’re in. It’s getting old fast.” I hear a female voice in the background, all sex, cigarettes, and whiskey, telling my brother something about a reservation and a dog.

  “Are you going on a date? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have a dog?” I demand.

  “Chêne, not chien. Jésus-Christ, Aggie, bone up on your French. And your Spanish, while you’re at it. And try not to pick up a drawl. You’re not some Southern belle.”

  “Baise ton chien,” I singsong.

  “Right. But I don’t have a dog to fuck, so no can do, sis. As always, it was lovely talking to you. Maybe next time you can leave out the bestiality, and we can have a nice conversation. Also…” He lets out another long sigh.

  My brother is fluent in four languages: English, Spanish, French, and dramatic sighs.

  “What? What’s wrong now?”

  “Make sure you send information about your graduation so we can book flights. I assume they do that, right? Have graduation ceremonies? They do do the whole cap and gown thing?”

  It’s like I can see Jasper rolling his eyes across the world when he asks that.

  “You better believe it, sugar. It’s just the biggest ole celebration with lots of peach cobbler and collard greens and sweet tea. Y’all should come see.” I lather the Southern accent on as thick as I can. It still sounds way too Brooklyn, but Jasper gasps on the other end.

  “Don’t do that. Even joking.” He pauses. “I’m excited to see you. I miss you. Are you still coming to Santo Domingo this summer with Dad and…me?”

  For a second I could’ve sworn Jasper was going to say something else. Maybe Mom? “I’m going to Vietnam with Ollie this summer, but I’d like to go to Santo Domingo too.”

  “Mama Patria’s going this year,” Jasper informs me.

  “What?” Our grandmother hasn’t been back to the Dominican Republic since her mother’s funeral. She’s deathly afraid of flying. “Really?”

  “Titi Josefina named her new baby after her, so she wants to come for the christening. Dad told her to get some antianxiety pills. It would be great if you could fly with her from New York. Think about it. And seriously, call Dad, please. Remember, what you do now matters later, Aggie. Be good.”

  It’s always when he’s just about to leave or get off the phone that I miss my brother most. And wish we weren’t always bickering. “I’ll try. Right back atcha. You and your little dog too.”

  He chuckles. “Brush up on your language skills while your brain is young and malleable. Buenos días.”

  “Buenas noches, Jasper.”

  I hang up and scroll through my contacts. I come across the smiling face of my father. Seeing a photo of him makes me feel even more guilty for not calling, and it makes me miss my four-person family unit.

  When we got home, it was obvious Mom and Dad weren’t going to chuck those divorce papers after all. Mama Patria, her dark hair rolled in tight curlers so she’d be ready for midweek mass, growled about Dad’s obliviousness as she washed her dishes, clanging the bone china into the wire rack recklessly. At that point she had no idea we were only a few weeks away from leaving the city and our close vicinity to her.

  “Emilio obviously still has eyes for your mother. I just don’t understand why a nice, hardworking man and a nice, hardworking woman with two gorgeous children call it quits because they need to ‘find themselves.’ Damn that book! He should have written a boring one no one would have read. A man shouldn’t write a memoir until his golden years. I should write my memoir. I’ve lived.”

  I rubbed the dishes dry with a soft old towel decorated with roosters. “I guess Dad missed Paris. He’s wanted to go back since he moved to the States before Jasper was born. And Mom said she was happy staying there back when she was finishing her master’s, but she loves New York too much to leave for good now.”

  I had no clue then how ironic those words would be a few short weeks later. Or maybe I had no idea how little I actually knew about my mother.

  “Paris, New York?” Mama Patria stared at the water streaming out of the tap, her parchment-soft hands a deep, shiny brown against the tiny white sink. “What’s the difference? Sometimes I wake up and expect to see the shutters of my abuela’s house in Santo Domingo. She had a pomegranate tree right outside with fruit as big as your head.” Her voice softened with this longing, then she snapped her head up and clipped back to business mode. “But what good is some fruit if my son and husband can’t enjoy it with me?”

  “Are you upset Dad moved back to Paris?” I put the dish I was drying aside and reached over to turn the tap off, but Mama Patria swatted my hand.

  “I thought you’d all move together.” She ran a finger over the resin statue of Saint Jude, perpetually blessing the kitchen sink. “Sometimes I think, ‘Well, you old witch, you got what you prayed for after all.’”

  “What?” I’d never noticed there were tiny pomegranates on my abuela’s old plates before.

  “I was very proud your father got the department head position, of course, but I was so sad to see him go, and I cried to Jesus about it.” She crossed herself, dripping soapsuds down the front of her dress. “Stupid, stupid. You complain about good in your life, you get half-baked answers to your prayers. Now I get to have my beautiful granddaughter and daughter-in-law here with me, but the family is ripped apart.” She plunged the clean cups back into the suds and rewashed them just to keep her hands busy.

  “Mama Patria, you don’t honestly believe your prayer did that, do you?” I leaned on the counter.

  “Get off the counter, Aggie. And, yes, I believe in the power of prayer. I also believe God sees.” She pointed at the ceiling like He was floating on His cloud above us. “He sees when you’re too stupid to accept the blessings you have, and He opens your eyes.”

  I should have listened instead of laughing it off. Maybe this whole move is my eyes being opened when I want nothing more than to screw them shut.

  I flop back on my bed and allow the reality of my own friendless state to wash over me when Ollie fails to answer another attempted call, and I don’t get up until I hear my mother’s keys in the front door.

  Without thinking about it, I skid into the hall. She steps out of her heels and rubs the arch of one foot as she rolls her neck. When she looks up and realizes I’m lurking, she nearly falls over.

  “Aggie! Sweetheart. It’s late.” She clamps her mouth, like she’s not sure what to say next.

  “I talked to Jasper. He misses you.”

  Mom’s face glows softly. I’m a little jealous that the mention of my brother brings such brimming happiness to my mom when lately, I’ve seen her look at me with only angst and worry.

  “I need to call him. How is he? How’s…” Her voice hitches, but she levels it. “How’s Dad?”

  “I didn’t talk to Dad.” I lean against the back of the couch as Mom unpins her hair and shakes it out around her pale shoulders. “Jasper just wanted to lecture me. He thinks I’m an idiot for moving down here.”

  Mom gnaws on her bottom lip. “Aggie, you know I would have been happy if the commute from your abuela’s hadn’t been impossibly difficult. I wanted you to be able to finish at Newington.”

  “I know.” This conversation was implied, but never spoken out loud before.

  “I know there wasn’t another plausible choice, but I hope this move hasn’t been only awful for you.” Her voice wobbles as she concentrates on placing her bobby pins up in hyperneat lines around the fallen tulip petals on the entrance table, like some tiny found-art project.

  I clear my throat. “I’m happy here.”

  “Yeah?” Her eyes widen with cauti
ous hope. “Aggie, I never expected it to happen like this, but I always hoped we’d have a home somewhere calmer than New York City. You know how much I loved our old place, but this has been a really peaceful experience for me. I actually have friends at work—interesting women who like me and want to see girly movies and drink sugary pink cocktails.”

  She’s glowing with happiness, and I can’t remember the last time I could say that. It dawns on me that my mother’s been putting on a brave face while she drowned in stress and, I guess, sadness.

  “You look happy.” I’m embarrassed I didn’t notice before.

  “I never expected to want to live somewhere other than New York City. But there’s something about the sun, the friendliness, the pace that just makes me…” She closes her eyes. “It just makes me feel good.”

  Something hard and icy cracks inside me.

  “Hey, One Hundred Thousand Beats had such a huge surge in viewers this last season, they’re renewing for another eight episodes. Probably that’s, like, really truly it. I heard the head nurse and the slimy neurologist already have parts on other shows. But maybe, if you want…we could catch up on the episodes we didn’t watch. I know we, uh, know how it ends up,” I mutter, hoping she won’t point out why we know. “But—”

  She abandons her bobby pins and wraps her arms tight around me. “I’d love that.”

  Before anything can unravel or slide back into nastiness, she kisses my temple and tells me she’s going to bed. We skip over the usual sleep tights and I love yous—it’s still a huge step forward.

  I sleep more peacefully than I have in a long time and wake up the next morning to Ollie’s face on my phone. My heart fist pumps with happiness. There’s my bestie, ringing through, and I accept her call like I never doubted her commitment in the first place.

  “Morning, sunshine!” she singsongs. “I’m sorry I missed your calls yesterday. Had the phone switched off to rehearse. So, how was baseball? Did you get to second? Did you get to third? Did you get a home run?” She cackles and shakes her head. “Damn, those were easy but ultimately unsatisfying jokes. Spill.”