A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  I shrug. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you. And I really wanted you here.”

  Paloma pulls me into her and hugs me. Her bare shoulders are warm from the hot, California sun, and she smells like sea spray and the soft perfume she wears.

  “Thank you,” she says the words into my shoulder.

  “For what?” I ask. And I have no idea what she could be thanking me for, but dammit I’m glad she’s here and in my arms right now. I can feel the beat of her heart against my chest. I wonder if she can hear how mine is hammering.

  “Oliver?” Mom calls. The front door creaks open, and Paloma jumps out of my arms.

  “What’s up, Ma?” I ask.

  “Hi, Paloma,” Mom says. And it feels weird to have the two most important women in my world standing together, in front of me for the first time.

  “Happy birthday, Mrs. Wu,” Paloma says. She extends her hand to my mom, but Ma pulls her in for a quick hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  “Thank you so much for coming, Paloma,” Mom says to her. “I know Oliver can be so bored at these things.”

  “My pleasure!” Paloma chirps. Her voice is several octaves higher than it normally is. It’s cute as hell how nervous she is with my mom.

  “We’re about to cut the cake, if you two want to join us,” Mom says.

  “Of course,” Paloma answers.

  “Be right there,” I say.

  Mom gives me a quick wink before she goes back into the house, which is hella embarrassing.

  “Come on, we’d better get in there,” Paloma says. She takes a deep breath and turns toward the front door.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  And for the first time in a long time, I feel nothing but happy.

  ***

  We stuff ourselves on cake and bar-b-que. Paloma mingles with my mom’s friends, which, she should win a citizenship award for because most of those women are insufferable. She listens to Kevin tell her about every single thing he’s built in his Minecraft world, and does it all with a smile on her face.

  She touches my arm lightly while she laughs at my dad’s lame jokes.

  There’s nothing heavy, or hard. We just hang out. We play video games with Kevin. We play ping-pong against Uncle Jake and Aunt Casey. They win, because I have zero hand-eye coordination, but Paloma doesn’t care or rag on me.

  When all the guests have left, and Mom and Dad have collapsed onto the sofa to watch Dateline, Paloma says she’d better get home, too.

  “I’ll drive you,” I say. I grab my keys off the counter and lead her to the front door.

  “Not too late, Oliver,” Dad calls from the couch. Mom is curled up into his side. “Homework.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Paloma grinning.

  “I won’t be long. Just driving Paloma home,” I say.

  “Goodnight, Paloma!” Mom calls.

  “Goodnight Mr. and Mrs. Wu!” she calls back. “Thank you so much for having me over.”

  I hold the door open for Paloma.

  As soon as we step outside, Paloma says, “You don’t have to drive me all the way home, Oliver. I can get there on my own.”

  I stop walking and touch the small of her back with my palm. I like the way the soft cotton of her dress feels. I like how she doesn’t flinch away, and, instead, seems to relax into my touch.

  “You’re kidding me, right? I know you’re capable. I want to bring you home, Paloma.”

  She gives a slight nod and flashes me a sweet smile.

  I hustle down the rest of the walkway, only because I know she’s stubborn as hell and I want to be there to open the car door for her before she can insist on doing that herself, too.

  There’s a difference between chivalry and chauvinism, and I think Paloma needs to see that difference first hand. I want to be the one to show it to her.

  “Homework, huh?” she asks, sliding into the passenger seat.

  I round the car and get into the driver’s seat before I answer.

  “I’ve got this stupid essay I have to write. I’ve been working on it for weeks, but haven’t gotten anywhere,” I say.

  “What’s it about?” Paloma asks.

  I start the car and rest my right hand on the back of her seat as I back out of the driveway.

  Once we’re on the road, headed in the right direction, I say, “Who Am I? is the topic.”

  “Doesn’t sound so hard,” she says.

  I laugh a little and pinch the space between my eyes. “Right, except lately I don’t have a single clue who I am. Not enough to write a paper on it, that’s for sure.”

  She rolls the window down a little and lets the cool, evening breeze fill the car. Her hair whips across her face, but she doesn’t try to hold it back.

  “Well, I know who you are,” Paloma says.

  “Yeah?” I ask. “Who’s that?”

  I glance over at her, and she’s got her cheek resting on the door, her eyes soft. She looks so damn content right now.

  “You’re smart, for one. You’re brave—”

  I scoff.

  “Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t discount yourself.”

  “I’m not,” I say. I am.

  I roll my neck around as we pull up to a red light. Paloma leans toward me.

  “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known, Oliver Wu,” she says. The tick tick tick of my turn signal is the only sound in the car for several long seconds. We just stare at each other. “I know you can’t exactly write an essay saying that, but there’s so much in you that I wish you saw.”

  I swallow hard and am thankful that it’s time for me to make my turn.

  “I guess I am brave,” I say. “I did invite you to my mom’s birthday lunch.”

  I try to lighten things up, which feels the opposite of brave.

  “I had such a good time today,” she says. “Your parents are so great. You’re lucky to have them.”

  “I know,” I say, honestly. “Hey, Paloma.”

  “Yep.”

  “Your parents are fools for not seeing what an amazing girl they have.” I want to say so much more than that, but that’ll have to do for tonight.

  We’re two houses away from her townhouse now, and I slow the speed of the car to a crawl.

  “I appreciate you saying that, Ollie.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  I pull my car into her driveway.

  I want to lean over and kiss her. God, do I want to kiss her.

  But a light flips on up on the porch, and Paloma tenses. “I’d better go.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “But Oliver? That essay? It’s okay to say you don’t know. It’s okay for that to be your truth, too.”

  Paloma leans over and kisses my cheek. It’s just a friendly peck, but it’s the perfect way to end the night.

  “Good night,” we say at the same time.

  I watch her walk up the steps to her townhouse and wish I could see into the future. I wish I knew that Paloma was going to always be okay.

  (Written as Oliver drove away) (Undelivered)

  34.

  I think I’ve got it. Finally. It’s exactly like Paloma said. Do what feels right to me, even when it’s scary.

  This probably isn’t the format Mrs. Driscoll was expecting, but this is what feels true to me. To who I am.

  Instead of an essay, I write a song.

  And it’s different than any song I’ve written before. Maybe not the best, but back when I was with the Xenophobes, I was writing songs like I knew exactly what I was doing.

  This time, I’m writing a song like I know why I’m doing it.

  “Postcards from the Future”

  By: Oliver Wu

  Lots of people are asking, about who I am right now;

  Where I’ll go to college,

  Where I stand,

  What makes me proud.

  I don’t have the answers,

  Don’t know anyone who does.
/>   17 feels too young

  For things to be etched in stone;

  So send me a postcard from the future, that tells me who I am;

  Cause I’m not sure the sum of the parts adds up

  To me right now.

  The things I know for sure,

  May not be clear in your eyes;

  I’m no longer just a victim;

  I’m no longer just straight-edge;

  I’m a full-fledged person,

  Figuring all that stuff out now;

  Don’t ask me to answer,

  For mistakes I made here and there;

  Don’t question my decisions,

  Or values of today.

  Don’t judge me on the past,

  Or tell me who you think I’m supposed to be;

  Send me a postcard from the future, to tell me who I am;

  Cause 17’s too young to know exactly where I stand.

  Some people say I’m brave;

  Some people say I’m smart;

  I think those things may be true, but does that make you who you are?

  I wish I had the answers;

  I wish I knew more now.

  But 17’s too young

  To have it figured all out now;

  I’m growing and I’m changing,

  Not sure where I’ll end up;

  So send me a postcard from the future,

  To give me hope that I don’t mess it up.

  Send me a postcard from the future,

  To show me who I am;

  I’m not yet what makes a whole,

  Or all it takes to be a man.

  But send me a postcard from the future that tells me who I am.

  35.

  I took two finals today, and then turned in my essay. I may get an F, but I did the best I could. I told the truth in the only way I know how. It’ll have to be good enough.

  It’s a half-day since we’re nearing the end of school, and I plan to grab some lunch and meet Paloma at the museum for a picnic.

  “Oliver!”

  I don’t turn, even though I hear my name and recognize his voice. I don’t turn because I recognize his voice.

  “Ol, wait up!”

  I pause with my key in my car door before facing Ryan.

  “What do you need?” I ask. I don’t mean for it to sound as cold as it does, but I can’t help it.

  Ryan flinches, but doesn’t go away. “How’ve you been?”

  I unlock my car door and toss my backpack onto the passenger seat. When I reply, I work hard not to sound like a prick.

  “I’m good.” I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell him about hiking with Paloma, or how I’d accepted early entrance to Berkeley.

  “I decided on UCSD,” Ryan says, shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Ah, couldn’t hack the Boston cold, huh?” I joke.

  “Something like that,” Ryan says.

  “Well, that’s great, man. Congratulations.”

  I don’t really know why he thinks the person he shit on and tossed aside needs to know about his college plans, but I smile anyway.

  “You got any big plans this summer?” Ryan asks, pressing into territory where ex-best friends don’t really belong.

  “Look, Ry, I don’t mean to be a dick, but what’s going on?” I ask, my voice sharp with frustration.

  “Okay, so I sort of need a favor.”

  Ah. So, there it is.

  “A favor? From me?” I laugh a little at the last part, because I’ve learned recently that laughing completely takes the edge off for me and everyone I love. And I need to take the edge off immediately, or I’ll wind up saying something to my ex-best friend that even he doesn’t deserve to hear.

  “Here’s the deal. We’ve got a gig.”

  A gig.

  My mind reels back to the night of our last gig, flipping through memories out of order. The good, the bad, the missing—I put one hand on the hot metal of my car roof and ignore the burn. If I don’t brace myself, I’m going to crumple onto the gravel right in front of the whole damn school.

  “You do realize the last gig I played with you was the night you decided that you hated me?” I manage to get out between clenched teeth.

  Ryan just bulldozes on, oblivious to everything other than getting what he wants. “This is important, Ol. Principal Hudson’s daughter heard the Xenophobes play at a party last week. She talked him into hiring us to play a few songs at prom.”

  “What do you need me for?” I ask, feeling a little fucking indignant.

  I’ve known Ryan forever. This is how he’s always been. But the time I’ve spent away from him must have numbed my memories, because his total lack of caring about anything other than himself is intense.

  “The good shit. The stuff that doesn’t sound so angry,” he starts.

  I know what he’s talking about. My songs never tried to teach a lesson or demand perfection like some of the stuff Ryan wrote. My songs are all about feeling.

  Or her.

  Ryan kicks softly at the rubber of my tire, and I know the way his brows are pulled in tight means that, for the first time in weeks, he’s about to have to say something nice to me, and it’s probably killing him.

  “That’s the stuff that’d work for prom. And it’s all stuff that’s yours. Topher’s cousin’s been helping us out when we need a bass player, but he’s no singer. And he can’t do your songs like you.”

  I tune out most of what he says next. I don’t throw in comments about how insulting it is that he’s been playing gigs with songs I wrote. I just wait for him to stop talking so I can reply.

  And I don’t feel the least bit sorry when I say, “Sorry, man. I’ve got plans that night.”

  At least I hope I do.

  (Delivered to Paloma’s window.) (After scaling a tree and pulling some Romeo and Juliet type balcony stuff to get it there.)

  (Purchased at the museum. The glossy side has a print of Afremov’s Dance Under the Rain.)

  36.

  “What’s with the vest? Is that what the kids are wearing these days?” Colm asks, his tone bordering on disgust.

  I take another glance at myself in the mirror. I didn’t want to overdress, so I skipped a tux or a suit, but I did opt for the nicest pair of dark jeans I own with a white V-neck, the vest, and a pair of Jack Purcell’s.

  Trying not to second guess myself, I say, “It looks good.”

  “Anyway, you owe me so hard for this,” Colm grumbles.

  “I do,” I agree. “Whatever you need, name it.”

  “Stop being such a stereotypically upstanding youth, Oliver Wu,” he says. He nudges past me, his shoulder knocking into mine. “I’m kidding. I’m happy to help. But if you get caught, I’m telling management that you threatened my life. I’ll tell ‘em you tried some Kung Fu ninja shit on me.”

  I bend down to retie the laces of my shoes for the hundredth time. “They’ll never believe that.”

  “You’re probably right. Okay, so, I’ve made sure there isn’t going to be any security down in the Costume Institute. I know it’s not the most romantic spot—”

  “This isn’t—”

  Colm holds up his hand. “Cut the bullshit. We both know what this is. Or what you hope it is. Anyway, costume wing, it’s all yours. But keep the noise down. And clean up your mess.”

  I nod, and Colm motions to the bag I’m holding. “What’d you bring, anyway? Wontons? Egg drop soup—”

  “In-N-Out,” I say.

  “Smooth, Wu. No girl can turn down a Double-Double, Animal Style.”

  “It’s no beard, but—”

  “All right, dick. Enough out of you. You’re good once you get to the costume wing, but I can only keep the stooges in security off the main monitors for so long, so hustle getting there, okay?”

  “Got it,” I say. It sounds serious, hell, it feels serious. Colm really is putting his ass on the line for me.

  “Now, get going. I’ll send her your way when she gets here.”
/>   “Thanks, man.”

  “And keep it down. I mean it.” Colm gives me a stern nod that’s completely negated by the sneaky smile he flashes. He’s probably loving every part of this. The sneaking around, putting one over on the guys in security who always give him shit, and helping me out on top of it.

  When it comes down to it, as much as we joke, Colm has become someone I know I can trust and depend on.

  The museum closed almost two hours ago, so it’s deserted. I’ve only been here after closing a couple of times, and it was just to take down holiday decor in the lobby or set up for an early event. I’ve never wandered the massive marble hallways in near darkness alone before. Colm must’ve had to work some serious ginger leprechaun magic to get the security guards away from the monitors for a while. Even if he is in charge, they don’t all just turn their backs on their posts. There had to be food involved.

  I owe him so hard.

  Everything is familiar, but feels completely different in the dim light. It’s a windy path to the costume wing, through multiple halls with various turns. I start to get nervous while I rush down the halls as quickly and quietly as possible and wonder if I should have insisted that I wait on Paloma at the front desk so she didn’t have to walk alone, no matter how well she knows the layout of this place.

  The lights that shine up on the individual displays are off, as I step into the room full of white statues. It’s a little unnerving being surrounded by oversized bodies in a nearly dark room. The European sculpture display has always been my least favorite part of the museum, even though it takes up the most space. I feel like once you’ve seen one statue of a naked dude or lady, you’ve seen them all. But as I weave through the wing quietly, trying to stay close to the walls, the forms actually look commanding, strong.

  I try to imagine what that must feel like.

  Maybe I even puff out my chest a little as I round the corner and take the staircase down to the costume wing.