Absolutely Maybe

by Lisa Yee

  “This is not about you,” I cry. “This is about me! Why can’t something be about me for a change?” I snatch the Warhol scarf off my head and blow my nose into it.

  “Christ, Maybe. It’s always been about you. Why are we even in California?”

  I swallow big gulps of air. “Ted,” I wail, “it was awful. I think he’s my dad, and he’s an asshole! My mother’s an idiot and my father’s an asshole—so where does that leave me?” Ted starts to say something, but I cut him off. “Don’t you dare answer that!”

  Ted walks me up and down the street until my breathing returns to normal. When I’m done telling him everything, he whistles. “Wow, I can’t believe it!”

  “I know,” I say, nodding.

  “Christian Culver couldn’t get a table?”

  “Ted, did you hear anything I said about my father?”

  “Gunnar is Gary, big producer, doesn’t trust you, likes blackened fish, said Chessy’s a loser. Yeah, I heard. Hey, are you going to take the DNA test? Can I see it? I’ve always wanted to take a DNA test. I think I have royal blood.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should,” he says as he paws through my purse and pulls out the test packet.

  “Why?”

  “So you’ll know for sure.”

  “What if I really don’t want to know? What if I don’t care?” I start wailing again.

  “Don’t be stupid. Of course you care, or else you wouldn’t have taken out an ad. You wouldn’t have met this guy for lunch. You wouldn’t have come to Los Angeles in the first place. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

  Ted’s right.

  “Hey, can I have this?” he asks, holding up the DNA packet.

  “Why? Sure. Whatever,” I mumble. I don’t care. It’s starting to feel good to cry, like scratching an itch. “Ted,” I babble, “things aren’t happening the way they’re supposed to.”

  “Come here, Maybe.” Ted hugs me tight again and doesn’t let go until we near the Rolls. That’s when I realize I’m still holding the black pouch Gary had put in my hands.

  I open it and scream. My scream startles Ted, and he screams. Then I show him what’s inside and he screams again, and I scream some more. He rushes me into the Rolls and slowly we dump the contents of the envelope out—and both start screaming.

  “Five thousand dollars,” Ted announces when he’s finally finished counting the bills. “That’s a lot of moola.”

  “It’s my hush fund,” I say bitterly. “My payola to keep out of his life. He hinted that if I’m his real daughter, there’s more where that came from. More, to make sure I keep quiet so I don’t ruin it for his ‘real’ family.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know.” Suddenly I feel tired. I don’t know anything anymore.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  It took me almost seventeen years, and nearly three thousand miles, to find out that the man who’s most likely my father is nowhere near the man I always dreamed he’d be. Where does that leave me now?

  With nothing left to lose, I look for Hollywood’s documentary. Vilma has leaned it against the dresser mirror next to my pile of socks. She has mended the holes. I clutch the teddy bear and turn on the DVD player in the living room. I’m still numb as I watch the film begin. It’s just as painful as I remember. But as it moves forward, something begins to change. That girl, that girl who’s me—she’s not as bad as I thought she was. In one scene, Ms. Hodor, the librarian, says, “I wish we had more kids like Maybe Chestnut here.”

  The documentary is coming to a close. “What are you going to do?” Ted is asking in the film.

  “I’m going to California.”

  “What’s there?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “Are you really going to do it?” “Maybe someday.”

  Then the film ends on a freeze frame of me looking hopeful. I pick up the phone and dial.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  It’s almost midnight. I am in my room reading A Little Princess. The phone rings. “Sorry for calling so late.” It’s Hollywood. “But I didn’t get your message until after I got back from the movies. Can I come over?”

  “Now?”

  “Please, Maybe.”

  It seems like as soon as I hang up the phone, the doorbell rings. Hollywood looks scared.

  “I’m sorry I punched you,” I tell him. “But you were a jerk for not warning me about the film.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “Whatever.”

  Hollywood gazes at me, then says, “I like your hair.”

  I run my fingers through what’s left of it. “You liar,” I say.

  Hollywood looks like he’s crumbling. He begins to babble, “In Rebel Without a Cause, one of the characters plunged off the cliff in his car. Before the film was released, James Dean died in a car crash. Many people think his death wasn’t an accident, but that it was suicide.” He pauses and his eyes widen. “Life imitating art. Or maybe it would be death imitating art.

  ‘”I don’t know what to do anymore. Except maybe die,’” Hollywood says quietly.

  “Hollywood?”

  “I’m quoting James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe, if you ever think I would purposely hurt you, I would want to die. I would want to kill myself.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s starting to sound Ted-ish. “Come on,” I say, walking him toward the patio. We both lean against the rail and look at the ocean. There is a warm breeze as the last of the Santa Ana winds brush past us.

  “Ted told me about your meeting with your father,” Hollywood says.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he’s a jerk.”

  “Yep, that pretty well sums it up.”

  “What was it like, meeting him after all these years?”

  In the moonlight I spot a trio of birds walking on the beach. They run away from the water when the waves lap the shore. “At first I was thrilled. Then when he ended up being such a bastard, I hated him. Now? Now, I don’t know what to think. I mean, it’s not for sure that he’s my father—but something tells me he is. And you know what? I don’t want it to be him.”

  We’re both silent again. Hollywood tugs on his collar. “Maybe, do you still hate me?”

  I hesitate. No sense in letting him off easy. After allowing a decent amount of time to pass, I answer, “No, I don’t hate you, Hollywood. How could I?”

  Even though I am staring straight ahead, I can feel the weight lift off of Hollywood’s shoulders as he sighs.

  I turn to face him. “Why did you make that documentary?”

  Hollywood flinches, then stammers, “It wasn’t something I planned. Not in the beginning, at least. I was always filming you because . . . well, because. Then I got the idea to make a documentary. I read that when you do one, the subject should be something dynamic. Something you care about a lot.”

  Now it’s my turn to be silent. Finally I say, “I don’t want you filming me anymore.”

  “Okay,” Hollywood says flatly. “But Maybe, did you ever watch the DVD I left for you?”

  “You left that, and the teddy bear and chocolates too?” He nods. I take a breath. The salty air gives me the nudge I need before plunging in. “I thought that girl on the screen was really messed up. But whoever made the film believes in her. I thought, Why the hell did Hollywood do this to me? and then I realized he didn’t do any of this. I did it all to myself. He just happened to be there. He’s always there for me, and he’s my friend, no matter what.

  “Hollywood, are you crying?”

  “No!” He won’t look at me. “Hey Maybe,” Hollywood says. His voice cracks. “Do you think ... is it possible ... I mean, do you have any feelings for me at all?”

  Hollywood looks straight into my eyes. He’s never done this before, not without a camera between us. Hollywood has beautiful eyes. They’re blue.

  I
laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I love Hollywood so much. But not that way. “Oh Hollywood, getting involved with me would just mess you up.”

  “But I’m already involved with you and messed up,” he pleads.

  “Sorry, but no. What about Jess?”

  “Jess is great, but she’s not you.”

  “Lucky Jess! Hey Hollywood?” I get serious. “There is one thing I need to ask you.”

  “Anything.”

  “That part in the film when my mom says, ‘Maybelline thinks I don’t love her, but I do.’ Hollywood, did you put her up to that?”

  He shakes his head. “She was drinking when she said that, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “Thanks, Hollywood. That’s what I needed to hear.” I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. He looks surprised but not unhappy. “Christ, Maybe,” he says. “You’re such a tease.”

  I take Hollywood by the hand and lead him into the house. Then I give him a gentle shove out the front door. “Good night, Hollywood.”

  “If I can’t make movies about you, can I at least dedicate them to you?” he asks as he walks backward down the driveway.

  “Good night, Hollywood,” I say, laughing. “Go home.”

  After he leaves, there’s one more thing I need to do. I take out my father folder. Who was I trying to kid? I guess I always knew that none of these men were my dad. One by one, I tear the pictures into tiny pieces. I stop and stare at the photo of my mother and Gary before ripping it in half.

  I head to the patio. Hollywood’s left his Super 8 behind. It’s lighter than I thought it would be. I turn it on, then toss the bits of paper over the balcony. Through the lens, I watch the Santa Anas sweep them away. When there’s nothing left to film, I turn off the camera and go to bed.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  In the morning, I wake up to find Chessy’s photo in my hand. The other half is gone. My mother looks so young and happy. As soon as Willow and Sammy leave, I call a cab. There’s someplace I need to go and I don’t want to have to ask anyone for a ride. When the taxi shows up, I get in. “Gateway Travel Agency,” I tell the driver.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Willow’s home when I get back. I need another ride, and this time I ask her. She drives like a maniac, but I can’t complain since she’s doing me a favor. As we careen down the hill, I grip the box that’s resting on my lap. It’s too big for me to carry to the taco truck.

  After she drops me off, Willow waves to Jess, guns the engine, and is gone. Jess lights up when she sees me. “Maybe, I’ve missed you!”

  “It must have been hard having to do all the work yourself.”

  “No, silly, I’ve missed you. Talking to you, having fun. It’s not about the work, although I must admit things went a lot more smoothly around here when it was the two of us.”

  “This is for you,” I say, handing the box over. It’s big and flat. Jess looks at me, questioning. “Just open it,” I tell her.

  “Oh Maybe!” she whispers as she admires Sammy’s photos.

  “I like the one of you and me tossing tortillas to each other,” I tell her.

  “It’s my favorite too.” Even though it’s late in the afternoon and we usually shut down at this time, Jess immediately starts putting the food photos up. The magnets on the backs work as well as I had hoped they would. “Maybe, how can I repay you and Sammy?”

  “Jess, this is my way of repaying you!”

  “For what?”

  “For saving me.”

  “From what?”

  “From Tammy, Todd, and Tina. From boredom. From—I don’t know! And Sammy doesn’t want anything from either of us. He’d be insulted if we tried to pay him. That’s just the way he is.”

  I jump into the truck and automatically start cleaning the grill. Jess joins me and puts away the big plastic shakers of spices. “You still mad at Danny?” she asks.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Good,” she says. “It was tearing me up that the two of you weren’t speaking. He’s really talented, isn’t he?”

  I nod. “Yeah, Hollywood’s pretty amazing.”

  “Who’s Hollywood?”

  “I mean Daniel. Daniel’s really something.”

  “You are too,” Jess says. “Seeing you in the documentary made me cry, but a good cry.”

  We work in silence. Jess and I don’t need to pollute the air with small talk. It feels good to be back in the truck. The smells of onions and pickled radishes and jalapenos are better than any fancy perfume.

  After the truck is clean, Jess hands me a guava Jarritos and we sit and admire Sammy’s food photos.

  “Jess, can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to go to Princeton?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I saw the letter.”

  Jess swirls what’s left of her soda around in the bottom of the bottle.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Why not? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer.”

  “My uncle needs me. . . .”

  “But Jess, this is your life we’re talking about, not his.”

  “I know, but... I can’t explain it. It’s like, it’s not up to me.”

  “Does your mom even know you got accepted?”

  “I didn’t even tell her I applied. I just did it to see if I could make it. I never thought I really would get in.” She hesitates. “This may sound weird, but I was so much happier before I knew Princeton wanted me.”

  Jess looks so sad. I’m kind of sorry I brought it up. I try to change the subject. “Hey Jess, I’ve been thinking about the truck and I have some ideas.”

  She looks grateful to be talking about something else. “What?”

  “Well, what if we had a list of seven things, you know, like promises to the customer.”

  “Oh! You mean, like a mission statement? Things like, ‘Our ingredients will always be fresh.’”

  “Exactly. And how about ‘Every taco is made to order We spend the rest of the afternoon talking, and laughing, and coming up with ideas. We name our list “The Benito’s Taco Truck Tenets.” As I am about to leave, Jess asks, “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  “See you tomorrow, Jess.”

  “Hey Maybe, there is one more thing. I like your hair. But would you mind wearing a baseball cap next time? You might scare the customers.”

  I laugh and head home.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The sound of the traffic and the crash of the waves make an unlikely duet that somehow works. Another new construction site has gone up overnight. This is good news for Benito’s Taco Truck #4. Luckily, the photos Sammy took help speed things up. Jess added the name of each taco and a number. Now most people just yell out things like, “Three number twos, hold the onions.”

  Today is hotter than usual and we’re working on hyper speed. Still, I find the hard work relaxing—and a great way to get my mind off of Gary or Gunnar or whoever he is or isn’t.

  Jess slaps down a tortilla, I scoop up some carne asada and toss it on, she puts it on a plate, I garnish it and hand it out the window. “Uncle Benny scowled when he first saw the photos,” Jess says as she stirs the rice on the back burner. Expertly, she tosses peppers into an iron skillet lined with hot oil. “But when I showed him the day’s receipts, he rubbed his head and asked, ‘Muchacha, how can you do this all by yourself? Your truck has been bringing in more money than all of the others.’ That’s when I told him about you.”

  I look up from the grill. Jess has always been afraid to mention me to her uncle Benny. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘She’s not Mexican?’ and I said, ‘No, but she’s my friend.’ I explained that the photos were your idea and how I couldn’t have done any of this without you. And do you know what he said?”

  I shake my head. I’m not sure I want to know. I’ve had enough rejection to last me a while.

  “He said, ‘I will not have a gringa
on my truck!’” I spill the salsa, but quickly wipe it up. Jess lowers her voice to imitate her uncle. “’Our family’s reputation is at stake!’ “I told him you were a great cook and he said, ‘Then she’ll have to prove it to me.’ So I told him that you would!”

  “What? Jess, I can’t do that!”

  “Why not? You’ll do fine. What do you think you’ve been doing all summer? Anyway, you don’t have a choice. He’s coming tomorrow.” Jess’s eyes are bright and I can tell she’s excited about this.

  I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m sorry, Jess, but I won’t do it.”

  The chicken on the grill begins to turn brown, but Jess doesn’t take her eyes off of me. “Maybe, I need you to do this. I need to prove to Uncle Benny that I can run this truck, I can hire someone, I can make money, and that I’m just as good or better than all the guys who run the other trucks. Please, Maybe.”

  The chicken is now burning. Jess’s eyes stay on me, pleading. Finally I nod. “Sure. Okay. Whatever.”

  Jess gives me a hug then turns her attention to the burnt chicken. She expertly scrapes it off the grill and throws some water on what’s left. A huge flume of steam rises, but Jess doesn’t seem to notice as she discards the burnt bits. When she’s done, the grill looks brand-new.

  “Daniel and I went to the movies last night,” Jess says cheerfully. “Maybe, he finally kissed me!”

  “That’s nice.” I don’t tell her who he saw after the movies.

  “It was nice,” she says softly. Even though it’s ten thousand degrees in the taco truck, I can see Jess blush. “Have you ever met someone that you just totally click with?”

  Well, there’s Ted, but I know that’s not what she means. “Not yet,” I tell her. “When it comes to relationships, I’ve seen too many bad ones.”

  On the walk home I begin thinking about the summer ending. No one has mentioned it. Not Ted, not Hollywood, not Jess, not Sammy. It’s as if by ignoring it, it won’t happen. I contemplate not showing up tomorrow so I won’t have to cook for Uncle Benny. God, why did I ever agree to it? It reminds me of my last days as a beauty pageant contestant. I just hated it, but Chessy kept pushing me. She pushed and pushed until one day I threw up onstage. I never had to enter another beauty pageant after that.