Multiple Listings
Page 30
He seems a little nervous. He’s pressing his forefinger into the cuticle of his thumb, which I now remember he used to do as a nervous habit. I missed him.
“I’m here for the goat cheese omelet. I’ve heard great things about it,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s kidding. “But if you think I’m cute, and you wouldn’t mind being in a relationship with me, I don’t know, maybe we could go back to the office and make out?”
“That sounds awesome,” I say. “I mean, if you don’t mind that I was raised by wolves and that sometimes it means I get really scared and tell people to go away when I totally don’t mean it.”
“Oh no, not at all,” he says. “Wolves are very misunderstood. Not very many people truly get them. But I do.” He takes my hand. He leans in and kisses me. “In fact, I love wolves.”
I take his hand and pull him back toward the office. As we pass the kitchen, Ronnie gives us a good morning, people nod.
“Hey, Ronnie,” Alex says. “What’s good?”
“Business is good. The weather is good. And God is good. All the time.” Ronnie then gives a big ha! And claps his hands.
I remember when Ronnie used to say stuff like that and I would roll my eyes. But I must have been converted, because as I shut the door to the office, I think it’s true. Not only do I know what Ronnie means by God—he means everything that is—but I also know he’s right.
God is good, all the time.
* * *
Later that day, I hurry into the school. Cody has asked me to be here at 2:30 p.m., sharp, in the auditorium, and I’m not sure why. All he said was, “Don’t worry, it’s not bad.”
There are lots of people milling around outside the auditorium. I search the crowd looking for Cody’s face, but I don’t see him. I better find a seat before whatever this is starts. The place is packed. The whole school is obviously in here, and lots of parents, too. I wave at one of the other moms, a woman I’ve known since Cody was in preschool. I’ve never really understood the whole school mom thing. I’m actually more like a school dad. I sail in for assemblies and performances and never volunteer to bring the cookies. It’s all I can do to get out of work long enough, and in time, to be here. Forget about being on the volunteering committee for the book sale or whatever.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone waving at me. The lights are down slightly, so at first I don’t recognize him—mostly because I had no idea he’d be here. It’s Ronnie. He’s pointing at the chair next to him, which he must have been saving, because it’s a good one, down in front, in the middle.
“What do you think is going on?” I ask as I fold down the old wooden seat and slide onto it. They are just as hard and uncomfortable as I remember. “It looks like the whole school is here. Something’s definitely up.”
Before Ronnie can answer, Principal Borman comes out and stands behind the podium. He looks a lot smaller from this vantage point than he did in his office that day. He taps the microphone, which lets out a sharp squeal. The whole crowd covers its ears. Then he starts talking.
“Ladies and gentlemen, students. As you know, we’re here to elect officers for Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and Senior Board.” He goes on to explain what Class Board is, how it’s different from student council, how it only handles very specific business pertaining to each class, and other details in a monotone that I’m having a hard time paying attention to. “To help you in your decision making, you’re now going to hear a short speech from the three candidates for each class.”
The curtain parts and there are twelve kids sitting in chairs.
One of them is Cody.
I shoot Ronnie a surprised look. He taps the arm on my chair a couple of times in excitement.
We have to wait thirty interminable minutes—during which I hear more than I could ever care to know about the freshman lunch area and the Sophomore Winter Fest—before it’s Cody’s turn. Finally, Principal Borman announces him.
“And now, for one of the more . . . unorthodox . . . members of the class of 2016, Cody Daniels.”
Cody gets up and lopes to the podium. From here I can really see how much he’s grown in the past couple of months—he’s standing a little taller, with a half smile on his face, not smug, but definitely more confident. He takes his place behind the podium and looks out at the crowd.
When Cody was little and he had to perform, I would always avoid staring at him too hard. I intuitively knew it would make him self-conscious, and I wanted to free him of the intensity of the mother gaze—the expectations, the judgment. I didn’t want him to have to be up there performing Shakespeare or whatever, worried about whether I was assessing him or not. But right now, I can see that that part of him is gone—like a baby tooth that’s fallen out and been replaced by something you can take into adulthood with you. Something that’s going to last for fifty years.
Cody catches my eye and I give him a teeny wave. Ronnie nods to him. We’re both so proud of him and he hasn’t even opened his mouth yet.
“Juniors of Garfield High School, I’m here to ask that you elect me to the Class Board. Now, I’m sure some of you are wondering why you would want to elect me to the board. After all, most of you don’t even really know me. Or if you do, you know me as the guy who got suspended for skipping class twenty-six times last term. Again, Principal Borman, I’m totally sorry for that.”
The whole auditorium erupts into laughter. Cody smiles; this is the effect he wanted.
“Normally, a guy like me wouldn’t dream of running for a position of importance in the school. Because in the world of Garfield High School, just like the world at large, once you make a mistake, once you get known as the Guy Who Skips Class, that’s it—that’s who you are, from that moment forward.
“But recent events in my life have convinced me that making mistakes, I mean totally fucking up—whoops—”
Again, howls of laughter, and a facial admonishment from Principal Borman—
“Sorry. That was a slip of the tongue. Anyway, recent events have taught me that the places where you’ve made your biggest mistakes are also the places where you have the most to give. Like me, for example. Truancy isn’t what I’m about. But I didn’t know that until I skipped all those classes and dealt with the consequences. Since my suspension, I’ve had a perfect attendance record. And what I’ve learned lately is that rather than just giving up on school, what I really needed to do was become part of it. I needed to be of service. This is why I’m running for Junior Class Board. To me, high school government shouldn’t just be for the perfect kids who are slam-dunking their way through life. I want to advocate for regular old juniors—I’m talking about the C-plus guy, and the B-minus girl—people who usually get nothing. The kids with the honors classes and the 4.2 GPA’s have enough power already! They don’t need any more!”
That gets a big laugh.
“Elect someone to Garfield High School Junior Board who will advocate for you. Who knows you’re not mediocre, you’re just ‘preexcellent.’ I didn’t know who I could be until I got inspired by someone who taught me that there’s more to life than getting money and playing Magic: The Gathering. Someone who showed me that no matter what you’ve done in your life—or haven’t—it’s never too late to turn it around.”
A cheer goes up from the juniors section. Cody’s thrilled, his face is bursting with pride and self-esteem.
I turn to my dad and he has tears streaming down his face. I kiss him on the cheek, then stand up and give Cody a standing ovation of one.
* * *
When I get home, there’s a small package on my doorstep. It’s from UPS and there’s no return address on it. I lean over and pick it up on my way into the house—I don’t have time to look at it. Every afternoon, I do a mad dash into the house for my twenty-minute turnaround—I come home from my last appraisal, and in no particular order, grab a shower, change clothes, make a
couple of calls, then jet back down to the restaurant for the evening shift.
This part of the day is the only peace I get. It’s the time when I get to sit on the sofa for five minutes and realize how good my life is and how grateful I am to live here. I’d call it “meditation,” but that would mean Ronnie’s having way too big an effect on me. So I just call it my QT (quiet time) and leave it at that. I never thought five minutes on the couch could mean so much.
I’ve never been so fine with being alone.
Alone used to mean all by myself in the world with a kid to take care of and no one to back me up except a best friend who can hardly manage her own life. Now my life is so full of people and love and work that being alone just means sitting on the sofa taking a breather. So that’s a relief.
I rip open the UPS package. It’s sort of dense, about the size of an old-fashioned paperback book and about as heavy as an iPhone. I’m wondering what this is—I didn’t order anything from anywhere that I remember, though I have been known to go shopping online in a procrastination blackout. Inside there’s a smallish manila envelope with one of those metal clasps. I bend it up and lift the flap.
It’s a stack of photographs. They’re all me.
Baby me. Toddler me. Preschool me. Elementary school me.
I flip through them: it’s like taking a memory drug—it all comes flooding back. Me at Cannon Beach, me on the first day of kindergarten, me at Christmas, me on ice skates, me with a Burger King crown on my head. The most disconcerting thing about it is that the second I see each picture I immediately remember almost everything about it. I remember that shirt, I remember wearing my hair like that, I remember that dog. How did I forget a whole dog? Is it possible that you could have this many memories—I’m holding years’ worth in my hand—and just . . . blank it all out?
Obviously, it is.
But how?
I know how. Because contained in every picture is not just what or who you’re looking at—me with the balloon, or the dog, or the Burger King crown—but also in there, right there, but unseen, is whoever took the picture. The person seeing the person in the picture.
Beth.
She’s right here; I’m holding her in my hand. And I want to forget about her. Forever.
But if the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that forgetting is impossible. There is no past. Everything that’s ever happened is still in there, ready to show up—to be called up—at any moment. And even if you manage to convince yourself that you forgot, the moment you see it again, you’ll know.
Acknowledgments
To write a novel is to navigate a paradox—it comes from you, but it’s not about you; it’s yours, but not yours. Utmost thanks to my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, for helping me find my way. Your insight, kindness, enthusiasm, patience, and faith made this book possible. I have so much appreciation for you and everyone at Gallery Books.
Deep gratitude, love, and respect to my agent, Andy McNicol at WME. I adore you and our partnership! Thanks also to the rest of my WME team: Tom Wellington, Nancy Josephson, Simon Faber, Ivo Fischer, Chris Jacquemin—it is a wonderful gift to feel so supported by you all.
Gratitude always to my dad, who is unfailingly loving, supportive, sunny, and understanding—even when I go too long before returning his calls.
Special thanks to Charlie, for being a fearless, thorough, and above all seriously loving partner. And kisses on the top of the head to Lee and Luna. I’m grateful to be part of your lives.
Finally, deepest thanks and gratitude to my son, Joseph, who inspires me every day with his intelligence, wit, honesty, character, and insanely good comic timing. You have been the North Star on my life’s journey to understand what it means to have a family. I love you, Muffin.
About the Author
TRACY McMILLAN is the author of the memoir I Love You and I’m Leaving You Anyway, as well as Why You’re Not Married . . . Yet, based upon an essay she wrote for The Huffington Post that went viral. She has also written for the Emmy Award–winning AMC series Mad Men, as well as Showtime’s United States of Tara, ABC’s Life on Mars, and NBC’s Journeyman. McMillan was one of the matchmakers on NBC’s dating reality show Ready for Love and has appeared as a relationship expert on the Today show and Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday. Multiple Listings is her first novel.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Tracy-McMillan
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Eleven Thousand Lakes, Inc.
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First Gallery Books hardcover edition March 2016
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Cover design by Lucy Kim
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Author photograph by Karin Labby
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.
ISBN 978-1-4767-8552-3
ISBN 978-1-4767-8554-7 (ebook)