Absolutely Maybe

by Lisa Yee

  By the time we get to Santa Monica, Hollywood’s talking about his student film competition again. “It’s a big deal.” He pauses and then says, “A REALLY big deal.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis.

  “Miss de la Tour won big in Vegas,” Ted informs us. “She always wins.”

  “To even be a finalist looks great on your resume,” Hollywood muses.

  “You should have seen the buffets—they go on for miles.”

  “A USC student has won the last five years in a row.”

  “Ever wonder why they call them crap tables?”

  At least they aren’t the kind of guys who talk sports all the time, like some of Chessy’s exes. Sammy’s not big into sports, though he likes to play tennis. Carlos was a jock. His sport was baseball and he played in a league. Jake’s sport is, of course, bowling. That and lying.

  Ted pulls up to some run-down restaurant called The Seaside Shack. I am surprised when a valet appears out of nowhere to park the Rolls. The hostess seats us on the patio. We’re practically on the beach. Her eyes move down to Ted’s shoes. She smirks, then asks, “Would you like a children’s menu?”

  He offers her a sweet smile and replies, “Would you like brain augmentation?”

  “My treat,” I announce as I pick up the menu. My jaw drops. For the price of an entree you could get twelve tacos, a large side of guacamole, and three Jarritos. Ted is more interested in food than economics. I’ve noticed that ever since he started hanging out with Gloria de la Tour, his tastes have gotten expensive. He orders the soft-shell crabs, calamari salad, and a side of garlic fries. Hollywood gets a cheeseburger and so do I. We split an order of fries and when asked what we’d like to drink, we both insist, “Water’s fine.”

  “Thanks,” I mouth to Hollywood.

  “You’re welcome,” he mouths back.

  After lunch we walk to the beach. It’s the first time I have ever stepped foot on the sand. It’s burning hot, so I run to the water and let it wash over my toes. It feels wonderful. Ted refuses to take off his platform shoes and promptly falls in a hole.

  “Help! Quicksand!”

  “Oh my God,” Hollywood shouts. “Look at that!” He rushes toward Ted and starts filming. Finally, when Ted throws sand at him, he stops and pulls him out as I stand on the sidelines laughing.

  “Hey, I have a brilliant idea,” Ted says as he sits on the curb pouring the sand out of his shoes. “Let’s take Maybe shopping. I’m getting tired of having to look at her in the same old clothes all the time.”

  “I’m in,” Hollywood says. Apparently he hasn’t noticed that he’s fashion-challenged.

  “Isn’t anyone going to ask me how I feel about this?”

  “NO!” they yell at the same time.

  We head to the Third Street Promenade with its street performers and boutiques and restaurants. The first store we go into has taken mood lighting too seriously. It is so dark I can barely see the clothes. The salesgirls don’t even acknowledge us, preferring to gossip about some celebrity whose liposuction destroyed her thighs and her career.

  Near the register, Hollywood is fascinated by a basket filled with small slips of colorful material. “Are these hospital masks?” he asks as he rifles through them.

  One of the girls smirks. “They’re women’s thongs. I don’t think we have them in your size.”

  I don’t have to look at Hollywood to know that he’s turning red.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ted says loudly. “We’ll spend our family fortunes elsewhere.”

  As we exit, the sun blinds us all. I squint to make out the building in front of us. “There,” I say, marching toward it. “That’s where we need to be.”

  Once inside the mall I spot a Shah’s department store. I herd the guys toward it. Ted’s hyper like a baby goat and Hollywood’s acting like an ancient giraffe, so it takes a while. Out of habit, I head to the men’s department until Ted booms, “Halt! Back up. It’s Teen Scene for you, missy!”

  I half seriously/half jokingly fight Hollywood and Ted as they drag me toward the brightly colored dresses and flowered tops in the junior girls’ department. “Sit here,” Ted orders, pushing me into a chair near the dressing room. He turns to Hollywood. “Let’s fan out, gather some clothes, and meet back here in fifteen minutes.”

  They coordinate watches. A middle-aged man with a so-so toupee is slouched in the chair across from me. Resting on his lap is a woman’s brown leather handbag. His eyelids keep slowly opening and closing, like he’s trying to stay awake. I smile at him. He smiles back, then gives up and nods off, snoring lightly.

  Hollywood is the first to return from his mission. He is carrying several pairs of shorts that look like khaki versions of the denim ones Jess has been lending me. “I didn’t know your size,” he says apologetically. He also hands me some T-shirts emblazoned with photos of retro bands, and a flimsy yellow sundress that I know I won’t be wearing.

  Ted bounds toward us with a white bathing suit and some jeans. He hands me a pink bathrobe. “Look,” he says proudly. “It’s festooned with bunnies! Festooned!”

  I slip on a pair of shorts first. They are nice, but too big. The third pair fits, and so do all the T-shirts. They’re snug, like my Benito’s ones, but I sort of like the way they look on me. Since I’ve been working on the taco truck, my body is toned for the first time in my life. I’m even tanned. I note that I will need a new bra, and some new panties wouldn’t hurt. Vilma left a note on mine after she washed them: Keep, toss, or burn?

  I ignore the sundress and move on to the jeans. They fit perfectly, but are expensive. I walk out to show the guys.

  The man with the purse is awake and Ted is explaining, “She’s been dressing like a boy for so long, we thought we’d do a kind of makeover on her.”

  “Oh, like on that show Queer Guys for the Straight Gal?”

  “What are you trying to say?” Ted asks.

  Hollywood’s camera is rolling. “How do you feel wearing clothes that actually fit?” he asks me.

  “Am I going to be on television?” The man adjusts his hair and tucks the purse under the chair.

  “Maybe, you have a butt!” Ted exclaims.

  I try to look angry, but can’t help myself and smile. “I’m taking these,” I say, pointing to the jeans and T-shirt. “But I still need shorts.”

  “What’s wrong with the ones I gave you?” Hollywood looks hurt.

  “Khaki?”

  “Yawn. This is boring,” Ted declares. “Let’s go clothes shopping for someone more interesting, like me. Come on, Hollywood.”

  As Ted and Hollywood head toward the children’s department, I am left alone with the man holding the purse. He shuts his eyes and goes back to sleep. A salesgirl comes over. She’s wearing trendy librarian glasses and a cool top that looks all distressed.

  “Your dad looks bored.”

  “He’s not my dad.”

  She laughs. “Well, someone’s dad looks bored. I love your hair. Jamaica Kool-Aid?”

  I nod.

  “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’d like a new look,” I confess. “But nothing too girly or froufrou. And I don’t like clothes that are too tight or revealing. And I don’t like bright colors or things with patterns. And I don’t like glittery clothes, or clothes that are complicated, and I hate—I cover my mouth when I realize that I have been babbling.

  “I think we have the same taste,” the salesgirl tells me. “Here’s a tip. Go to Aardvark’s on Melrose in Hollywood. You’ll find what you’re looking for there. It’s all vintage, plus a lot cheaper than here. But you should get those jeans—they look great on you. They show off your figure.”

  I pay and head back outside with my bags. Ted and Hollywood are on the Promenade listening to some street musicians playing upturned garbage cans. Ted looks like he’s had a bad reaction to lunch, but that’s just the way he dances. Hollywood is filming.

  A little ways down, a slight gray-haired woman sits
at a card table. She’s wearing a heavy red velvet robe, even though it must be ninety degrees, and has rings on every finger. Her hand-lettered sign reads, madame g. poupon, fortune teller. When she sees me staring, she puts down her Starbucks. “Twenty dollars,” she says in a gravelly voice.

  I turn to walk away.

  “Fifteen dollars,” she calls after me. When I keep walking, she yells, “Ten dollars and no less. You’re cheating me!”

  I sit on the metal folding chair. It’s burning hot, but I try to ignore it. Madame Poupon pushes some cards around on the table, which is covered with red velvet. I’ll bet she got a good deal on the material. She shuts her eyes and hums, slowly rocking back and forth. I wonder if she remembers I am here. Finally she blinks and stares at me. I shift in my seat.

  “You have been on a journey?” I nod. “But you still have far to go. You have a lot of stress on your shoulders. Life is giving you pressure. You are confused.”

  Madame Poupon could be saying this stuff about anyone. I have just wasted ten dollars. As I get up to leave, she grabs my wrist. “WAIT!” She closes her eyes and begins humming again. “You think that if you find your father, your problems will be solved. But that’s not the answer. The answer is . . . the answer is . . .”

  “What’s the answer? What is it?”

  She smiles as her eyes flutter open. “Your time is up. For fifty dollars, I will give you the answer.”

  “Forget it,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want to know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It’s been days since I’ve seen Madame Poupon, but I can’t stop thinking about what she said. Should I have paid the fifty dollars? Was she telling me not to look for my father? I take out my father file and stare at the photo. How many Gunnars could there be in this town? My internet searches take me nowhere. I’ve found several shows and movies that were filmed in Florida about the time my father was there, but Gunnar’s name never shows up. It’s like he never existed.

  I finally called a private detective who specializes in finding missing persons.

  “What’s his full name?” she asked.

  “His last known address?”

  “Driver’s license number?”

  “Place of employment?”

  “Date of birth?”

  “Friends’ names?”

  “I don’t suppose you have his social security number?”

  There isn’t much I could tell her. “What do you charge?” I asked.

  “Honey, let me give you some advice for free.” I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Just ask your mother who he is. If she still won’t tell you, my rate is one hundred and fifty dollars an hour with an eight-hour minimum.”

  The lunch crowd has cleared and Jess and I are taking a breather. “Who are they?” Jess asks, looking over my shoulder.

  “My parents.”

  She takes the photo from my hand. “Your mom’s pretty. Is that one of your stepdads?”

  “That’s my biological father, the one I’m looking for.”

  Jess stares at the photo for a long time before handing it back to me. “I hope you find him, Maybe. I never knew my dad either.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died when I was little.”

  I turn to ask her about it, but she’s already picking up trash outside of the truck.

  When I get home, I tuck the photo back into my father file.

  Tonight Sammy is taking me out to dinner. Just me. No Twig. “Wear something nice,” he says cheerfully as I head downstairs.

  Hollywood, Ted, and I really cleaned up at Aardvark’s. Ted found two more pairs of platform shoes, a boy’s size XL green corduroy suit, and a fedora. The shoes are women’s sizes so they fit him perfectly and he doesn’t have to wear three pairs of gym socks. Hollywood scored big-time with a vintage Bruce Lee T-shirt, a 20th Century Fox baseball cap that looks like it’s been chewed by a dog, and a red Windbreaker like the one James Dean wore in Rebel Without a Cause (only it’s all faded and looks more pink than red).

  I found two pairs of cutoffs, some ripped jeans, a Boy Scout shirt, and a Hostess Twinkie deliveryman jacket. Ted and I spotted an Andy Warhol scarf at the same time and arm-wrestled for it. Usually he wins, but I really wanted the scarf, so I had Hollywood tickle him. I thought this would make Ted angry, but he didn’t seem to mind (although later he claimed I cheated).

  I am looking at my clothes spread out on my bed. I only wear my Hanes XL T-shirts to sleep in. I can’t believe I used to wear those things in public. There really isn’t anything nice enough for me to wear to dinner. I sigh. I know what I have to do, and the thought of it repulses me. But anything for Sammy.

  Twig is sitting cross-legged on the couch staring at a fashion magazine. She licks her finger every time she turns the page. I hope she gets a paper cut.

  “Hey Willow.”

  “What?” she says, not bothering to look up.

  “Can I borrow some of your clothes?”

  That got her attention. She stares at me as if I asked for one of her kidneys.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Yes, why not?” Sammy asks as he walks through the room carrying a camera case. His hair is in a ponytail. He’d look good with an earring.

  “Well, er . . . I suppose, if Maybe, well, I guess I can try to find something in her size . . .”

  I’ve been in Willow’s closet before. Sometimes when she’s not home, Ted and I try on her clothes. Ted’s particularly fond of her faux fur. He always growls and pretends to be a bear when he wears it.

  As Twig goes through her things, we both already know that most of them won’t fit me. “Well,” she finally says as she moves an orange blouse to the fall section of her closet, “you have those new jeans.” I am impressed that she knew about them. “Let’s pair them with nice shoes and a top, and a great jacket—although, it would be best for you to stay away from patterns or colors that clash with your hair.” My hair is blue today.

  I look down at my sneakers. They are beyond shredded. Chessy always hated these shoes, which is why I wore them. “Maybelline, something with a defined heel won’t kill you,” she’d say. “Look what it did for Cinderella.”

  Twig pulls out a couple of pairs of shoes, including black pointy-toed boots, and several tops. She holds them up in front of my face. “Try these on,” she orders. “Put on your good jeans too, so we can see how the ensemble looks.”

  The ensemble? I had no idea she could use three-syllable words.

  I have to wriggle to get into my pants. They shrunk the first time I washed them. I try on the black tank top and attempt to slip a fitted jacket over it, but my arm gets stuck so I give up. I wonder if my Hostess Twinkie jacket would qualify as fancy? It’s a bit of a struggle, but I get the boots on. At least those fit, although they make me wobbly, like Ted the first time he tried on platform shoes.

  Twig is sitting on the bed smoking a cigarette. “The jacket was too small,” I tell her, lifting up an arm as proof.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  I am about to insult her skinny skankiness but remember she’s doing me a favor. She is now digging through drawers. Finally Twig cries, “Here it is!” and pulls out a sweater.

  “It’s see-through! I can’t wear that!”

  “It’s the style. Besides, dummy, you wear it over the tank top.”

  I slip it on. It’s nice and roomy, and I actually like the gray color. Twig nods and murmurs, “Not bad, but it needs something.”

  As she digs through her jewelry box I rush out of the room. “How about this?” I say when I return. I hold up the Andy Warhol scarf.

  “Hey, that’ll work great.”

  I begin to tie it around my neck, but Willow starts screaming like she’s been shot. “No! No! No! No!” She grabs the scarf from me. “Not there, here!” Willow threads the Warhol through my belt loops. “Like this. There, now you look decent.”

  I turn to look at myself in the mir
ror. Twig is right. I do look decent.

  “Thank you, Willow.”

  “Yada, yada, whatever,” she answers.

  Sammy and I are silent as we ride down the coast in his silver BMW. The top is down and the engine purrs. He always did like nice cars.

  We don’t do a lot of talking; we never did. But it’s not at all uncomfortable. When he was married to Chessy, she talked enough for all of us. We’d both sit in the apartment and listen to her chatter nonstop, then Sammy would take me out for ice cream and we’d sit there contented, savoring our sundaes and the silence.

  The restaurant hostess greets Sammy by name and seats us immediately even though there are lots of people ahead of us. “I did her head shots,” Sammy whispers. “She’s a model.”

  I’m not surprised. Southern California is the land of the lovely people. All of a sudden I no longer feel like I look decent. I feel lumpy and ugly, like I used to around Chessy’s Charmers. I wonder what my mother would think about my looks now.

  As if he’s reading my mind, Sammy speaks up. “You look wonderful, Maybe. But then, you always did. You got good genes from your mom.”

  I know he’s just being nice.

  “So tell me,” he continues, “why exactly are you here? What haven’t you told me, Maybe?”

  I marvel that he waited this long to ask. But then, Sammy has always been very patient. I can’t tell him that I’m looking for my biological father. It might hurt his feelings. He’s the closest thing to a real father that I’ve ever had. So instead I quip, “Just wanting to see what the rest of the world is like.” The waiter refills my water glass. Sammy doesn’t say anything. “I needed to get away,” I confess. “It was suffocating in Kissimmee. You used to live there, you know what it’s like.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Before I can stop myself I am crying into my artichoke dip. “Jake ... he tried to . . .”

  I stop.

  “He tried to what?” I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me. “What, Maybe?” Sammy says. “Did he do something to you?”