Just Visiting

by Dahlia Adler

  “Not everybody likes pancakes,” she snaps back, sharply enough so that I know she’s plenty awake now.

  “No, but you do, and I know you wanted to make the most of these college visits.” And you’ve never passed up a free meal that wasn’t actual charity in your life, I think but obviously don’t say. It’s certainly not her fault that food in the Forrester house is somewhere on her mother’s priority list between getting weekly manicures and buying furry cell phone accessories from the Home Shopping Network. I exhale sharply. “Is this about Dave?”

  She sticks out her tongue. “Dave who?”

  “Come off it, Rae. And skipping the breakfast to avoid him is just sad.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  I sit down on the edge of her bed, even though she won’t make eye contact with me, and stroke her hair. “He was here last night, you know.”

  She flips over so suddenly I don’t even have time to move my hand and it nearly pokes her in the eye. “Here, here? Like he stalked us to the hotel?”

  “Tia Maria, Rae, no. He was staying here also. I ran into him outside at 4:00 a.m.” I bite the insides of my lips, wondering if I should be telling her this at all. “Anyway, I’m sure he’s not here anymore.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “Yeah. Well, funny coincidence.” Then she sighs and sits up. “So, what do you want to do for breakfast?”

  My eyebrows shoot up of their own free will. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? ‘Did he ask about me? Did he pledge his undying love?’” She rolls her eyes. “Will you stop making this into more than it is? I hung out with a guy at a party. That’s all.”

  There’s no clear evidence that she’s lying, but I know she is. I’ve seen Reagan talk to other guys and it’s never like this. I can’t help but wonder if she cracked up this easily with Secret Blond Guy, if she bought new shirts for him that showed off her arms. But fine, if she won’t ask what I know she’s dying to know, then I’m not going to tell her.

  “If you say so,” I allow, standing up and stretching. “And I have no idea what there is to do for breakfast around here. Shall we go explore? Give ourselves that self-guided tour you were all gung-ho about?”

  “You mean there are things you want to see outside of Greek Row?”

  “Keep that up and your tour will be really self-guided, if you know what I mean.”

  She grunts but finally drags herself out of bed and heads to the bathroom to wash up. I follow her lead, and an hour later we’re showered, dressed, and ready to take on our second day of college.

  As soon as we track down some coffee.

  After following the aroma of warm vanilla latte to a coffee cart on campus, we grab maps from the welcome center and start our trek around. To the surprise of absolutely nobody, there are approximately four hundred places on Reagan’s “must-see” list, ranging from the gym with its indoor swimming pool to the statue of Charles L. Robinson, who Reagan informs me was the first governor of the state of Kansas. I’m exhausted after fifteen minutes, even though I’ve taken Reagan’s stupid advice and worn stupid sneakers today instead of my super cute studded cowboy boots or my hot, over-the-knee leather boots that admittedly make me sweat like a pig after thirty seconds.

  Finally, after we’ve seen every single building, sculpture, field, and cafeteria on campus—and refueled with cheeseburgers and fries—I convince Reagan to chill for a minute on one of the benches on the massive quad. We flop onto green-painted wood, put down our bags, and drink in the scenery—people studying under the shade of enormous oak trees, couples making out in plain sight, a bunch of guys in cargo shorts and sweatshirts tossing around a Frisbee. It’s exactly how I pictured it, all of it, and suddenly, finally, I can see it, me and Reagan, doing the college thing.

  I grab the bulletin she nabbed from the welcome center and flip through it. It’s the first time I’ve seen one of these, and it’s even scarier than I imagined it would be, but at least I know right where to go. Or at least I think I do. But it’s not there. No matter how many times I flip the pages, I see it’s still missing.

  “Everything okay there, Vic? You’re going nuts on that thing like it’s a double issue of Vogue.”

  “It’s not here,” I say, handing it over.

  “What’s not?” She takes the catalog from me and looks down. “I see Environmental Studies and French.”

  “And what don’t you see?”

  She frowns and her forehead wrinkles as she reads the page yet again. Then, finally, her entire face softens. “Fashion design. Oh, Vic, didn’t you check if they had it as a major before you planned out the Reagan and Victoria College Visit Bonanza?”

  I feel a weird lump in my throat, as if someone’s just ripped out this perfect quad of my future from underneath my Pumas. “How could they not have it?” I ask, hating how defensive I sound. Of course I should’ve checked. I feel so stupid that it didn’t even occur to me. “Even CCC has a fashion design major.”

  “CCC also has an auto repair major,” she points out, gently closing the catalog. I stare down at her ragged, bitten nails. “It’s Charytan Community College, Vic. They basically have whatever they can find someone to teach, and Miss Lucy’s an institution in that place.”

  It’s true. No one has any idea how old Miss Lucy is, but she’s been designing the most fun and awesome clothes in Charytan for-freaking-ever. Her hair is super-shiny silver except for one streak in front that she keeps bright ketchup red. I don’t think she has a single article of clothing that doesn’t have enormous fake jewels stitched onto it somewhere. And, she went to the Fashion Institute in New York City, which basically makes her the coolest person ever to step foot in our little town.

  She’s basically my idol.

  She’s taught fashion design at CCC for as long as I can remember; I’ve spent many an afternoon peeking into her classroom while waiting for my parents to finish up their day. CCC is actually what brought us to Charytan of all places, once we left Arizona. Finding teaching positions for not one but both of my parents was a bigger challenge than any of us expected it to be, and they lucked out when an old grad school friend who ended up at K-State directed them there. Or at least it seemed lucky at the time, anyway. I was so excited about leaving Arizona, I didn’t even really consider whether Kansas would be any better.

  Now it’s been my home for two years, and it will be for another five. But at least I won’t be alone.

  We’re both quiet for another few minutes, just watching everyone having fun, enjoying their lives as philosophy majors or frat bros or whoever they are. Finally, Reagan says, “I think we passed an ice cream place a few blocks ago.”

  I can’t help smiling, which is a nice change from being on the verge of tears. “I think so too.” I hop up onto my feet and grab her hands, yanking her up with me. “We have a zillion other places to visit. Who cares about this one, right?”

  “Right.” She picks up the bulletin and makes to rip it in half, though it takes all of two seconds for us both to realize she has no shot. We both laugh, and then she says, “or maybe I’ll just bring it back to the welcome center.”

  “Later,” I insist. “First, I think we both need something with a lot of sprinkles.”

  Man, ice cream is good at fixing everything. One chocolate chip cookie dough sundae with fudge, sprinkles, and whipped cream on top later, we’ve moved on from boys and majors to movies we want to see, music we’re going to listen to on the drive home, and what undoubtedly disgusting things took place in the history of our motel room.

  “I mean, you saw that wallpaper,” says Reagan, swirling her spoon in the remaining whipped cream. “That just screamed ‘I take my maid here on the weekends.’”

  I roll my eyes. “As if someone who knows anything about cleanliness could stand to be in that cesspool for more than five seconds. Please.”

  She grins and digs out a chunk of cookie dough, which she pops in her mouth j
ust as her eyes dash to the plate-glass window and back to me so quickly I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it. But I did, because I was, and I roll my own eyes practically out of my head.

  “What?” she demands.

  “You’re looking for him.”

  “Looking for who?”

  “What is it you always say to me?” I yank the cup of ice cream away from her and dig in my spoon. “Oh yeah. ‘I am not going to dignify that with a response.’”

  She sighs. “You’re impossible.”

  “I’ll leave you alone as soon as you admit that you’re hot for Battlestar Gallactica.”

  “He has a name.”

  “Am I allowed to say it or will that get me some sort of glare of doom?”

  She yanks the ice cream back. “Still not talking about this.”

  “Of course you’re not,” I mutter, thinking about the mystery boy from Reagan’s signed picture again.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means for some reason, you cannot acknowledge that you have hormones like the rest of us,” I declare, drawing stares from around the ice cream shop. “So you have a crush on a guy you met. Was that so terrifying that you just had to run away from him?”

  “You pulled me away!”

  “You let me!” I counter, trying to keep my voice down to limit the spectators. “I thought I was rescuing you from a lousy party and we’d see him this morning. I didn’t know you picked a fight with him and then purposely made us miss the breakfast.”

  She narrows her eyes and I realize I’ve given away more than I’d meant to. “What makes you think I picked a fight with him? What did he say to you when you saw him last night?”

  “Enough for me to know you picked a fight with him, which wasn’t much, because I know you. Why do you do this, Rae? We’re supposed to meet guys and have fun. That’s the point!”

  “No,” she says slowly, her voice dripping with ice, “we’re supposed to see what the classes and campus are like so we can figure out how to get actual decent college educations so we can get out of that sinking ship of a town for good.”

  Suddenly, the ice cream isn’t sitting so well in my stomach. It’s always been fun, if a little frustrating, how different Rae and I are, but for the first time in our friendship it hits me what those differences could mean for our future together.

  Picture Boy Who Once Loved Reagan is on the tip of my tongue, and I desperately want to tell her that whoever he is, I think he’s somehow holding her back, but I don’t want to fight anymore. All I want is to get home, hug my mom, and lose myself in my sewing machine for a few hours.

  “I think I’m done,” I say weakly, pushing the cup away.

  “Yeah, me too.” Her voice is hollow as she digs her spoon back into the ice cream and leaves it there, sticking up out of the surface like an American flag on the moon. “Let’s go get our stuff and get out of here.” She grabs the cup—she is physically incapable of throwing out food and I’ve learned well enough never to do it in front of her—and we head out, back to the hotel with the horrid wallpaper, back to the old Nissan, back to “that sinking ship” that also happens to be home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  REAGAN

  The ride home is a whole lot quieter than the ride there. Things feel weird, and for the first time in a long time, all I want is to be home in my crappy little trailer. I can tell Vic’s just as eager to get back to her cozy house so she can get into a signing frenzy with her mom over cups of hot chocolate with cinnamon and chili powder.

  We hug goodbye as usual when I drop her off, and I head back home, dreading following up that awkward ride with some even more unpleasant Forrester Family Fun. When I pull into my spot in the lot, though, I realize there’s no sound coming from inside.

  I’m so excited at the potential for some uninterrupted time at home that I almost fall on my ass in my rush to scramble out of the car. I grab my stuff from the trunk and run inside, holding my breath until I can confirm that my mother is indeed not parked on the couch, watching our far-too-nice-for-our-trailer TV and ordering ridiculous things we can’t remotely afford. It feels like a holiday, like freaking Christmas, and considering I’ve barely started my history paper—and that my mom usually gives me things like socks with fur around the ankles—it’s probably the best gift I’ve ever gotten.

  I squeeze past my mom’s hoarded piles of junk into the tiny cell of my bedroom, flip on the light switch, and toss my bag on the bed. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the light hasn’t turned on. I walk back to the switch and flip it a couple more times. Nothing.

  A quick check of the rest of the trailer, including the TV, reveals that we’re totally electricity-free. No wonder my mother’s not home. If she can’t watch TV, what good is this place?

  Unfortunately, with only one tiny window that barely gets any light, my room’s not a whole lot more useful without power. I know my mom just paid the bill last week—I gave her the money from my tips, even though I’m supposed to be saving it for gas money—but when I stick my head out the door and look from side to side, it’s obvious both the Jamesons to the right of us and the Karowskis to the left have power.

  “Hey, Reagan.” Jake Karowski waves from the lounge chair that’s permanently parked in front of their trailer, rain or shine. Though most of the guys in the Myrtle Grove Trailer Park are in some sort of construction, Jake’s in the tight-knit group of farmhands, and it shows on his lined, sun-browned skin. “You looking for your mom?”

  “Guess I am now.” I lift a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun; our awning’s been broken for-freaking-ever and my dad’s never home long enough to fix it. “She in with Molly?”

  “Nah, Molly’s out at the school.” Molly Karowski’s a custodian at the middle school I went to as a kid. I know it kills my mom to be friends with a janitor, even more than it kills her that her daughter respects the hell out of said janitor for having a damn job in a trailer park where laziness and entitlement run rampant like shingles. “I think she’s at the Blacks.”

  I purse my lips while I wait for him to elaborate, since sadly, at Myrtle Grove, there are two options—the actually-named-Blacks, a.k.a. Sheila and her son, Jimmy, and the lone black family in the entire white trash park, a.k.a. Beverly and Isaiah Pope and their two kids, whom people have unfortunately taken to dubbing “the blacks,” because apparently that’s easier than “the Popes” and also easier than not being an asshole.

  He doesn’t say anything more, but I decide that despite being fairly old school, Jake’s a decent guy and therefore probably means the actual ones. Which is a shame, because Isaiah Pope is the only electrician in the entire park full of construction workers and farmhands, and had she been there, I might’ve been able to believe she was actually trying to do something about our powerlessness. Instead, she’s with another one of her lazy-ass friends, probably watching crappy TV.

  “Thanks, Jake,” I say with a sigh, trudging over to the Blacks’ trailer. Before I can even make it halfway to the door, my mom comes bursting out.

  “There ya are!” she cries out, fake southern accent and all, as if she’s sent out some sort of search party for me. She jiggles on over—something that’d be far less noticeable if she didn’t insist on wearing hot-pink spandex—and grabs me by the arm. “We’ve been waiting for you forever. You need to take Jimmy to his dad’s.”

  I dig my heels into the dirt, halting both of us in our tracks. “What? No.”

  “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you,” she says with a tightly set jaw, her voice losing a bit of its charm as she tries to tug me back toward the Blacks’ trailer.

  I yank my arm out of her grasp. “You can tell me things like that when you or Sheila starts chipping in for gas money,” I hiss. “Hank Black lives twenty minutes away and these rides add up. Plus, I have work to do for school and we don’t even have any power!”

  “Oh, stop being a brat. Twenty minutes is nothing, and w
hen a neighbor needs your help, you help.”

  “It’s forty there and back,” I point out, “plus Brenda always makes me stay so she can feed me whatever she’s baked and burned that day. Why can’t she drive Jimmy in her own damn car?”

  “Don’t you swear at me.”

  Oh God. I can’t. I just can’t. “I’m going to the library.” I wrench my arm away for good and stalk back to the trailer, when suddenly I hear a familiar high voice behind me.

  “Rae-Rae! Are you bringing me to my daddy’th?”

  Christ. They sicced the kid on me, cute little lisp and all. I should’ve seen it coming. I take a deep breath and paste a smile on my face before turning around, even as I can feel my head work up a steady throb at the thought of losing an hour on this paper. Not to mention that I’ve literally just come back from driving for two hours and have no desire to do it again.

  “Actually,” I say sweetly, pointedly avoiding both my mother’s and Sheila’s eyes from where they both now stand, leaning against the trailer and watching what appears to be an amusing show to them, “I think your mommy’s gonna take you this time! Isn’t that fun?”

  Judging by Jimmy’s frown, it’s not fun at all. “My mommy thays she’th not going near that thlut ever again,” he informs me, scratching at his scalp. “Rae-Rae, what’th a thlut?”

  I bite my lips from the inside, especially when I see my mom and Sheila smothering laughter behind their hands. “It’s nothing, Jimmy. I’ll take you. I just need to talk to your mom for a sec, okay?”

  “Okay! I’ll get my backpack.”

  He runs back into the trailer, dashing past both women in their nauseating spandex and cheap bleached hair, and I wait until he’s out of earshot before I march up into Sheila’s face. Only then do I notice the familiar gold band glinting on my mother’s hand, and whatever reserves of control I might’ve had snap completely.

  “One of these days,” I tell Sheila in a voice of steel, “you’re going to have to grow the fuck up. And take my mother with you. Now give me some gas money, or your kid can walk.”