The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  But Henry only rolls his eyes and then shakes my hand. “I work for Freddy’s management company. Your father pays me to boss him around.”

  After being introduced to a rumpled drummer and a young keyboardist, I flee. “I’m going for a walk,” I say, sliding into my shoes beside the door.

  My father follows me out onto the front stoop. “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Just to orient you, the beach is that way.” He points down the block. “We’re on 16th Street right now. North is higher numbers, south is lower numbers. Wait…” He pulls his wallet out. “This is for you.”

  It’s a credit card with my name on it. “What for?”

  He shrugs. “T-shirts, coffee. Those groceries you’re so fond of. Whatever it is bored girls need on a summer’s day.”

  I turn the card over in my hand. “Thanks.”

  “There’s a bookstore on Manhattan and 9th. You’ll see.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you later.” I walk down the little front walk. He’s still watching me.

  “Do you have your phone?” he calls.

  The question hits me in a funny way. For the first time, he sounds a hell of a lot like my mom. I turn around. “Why? Is this a dangerous neighborhood?”

  He laughs. “No.”

  “Then bye.” I walk away without looking back.

  * * *

  It’s lovely to be alone. I haven’t been alone, with nothing to do, in a very long time. I walk down Manhattan Avenue looking into the shop windows. At least half the storefronts are upscale boutiques, each with a beautiful window display.

  I stop to admire some bathing suits, their design managing to be both sporty and sexy at once. The price tags are mostly turned face down, but one is visible. $260, it reads. As I smile, I feel my mother smile along with me. We used to amuse each other with outrageous price tags.

  My mother’s nose crinkled up whenever she laughed.

  Strangely, I feel her presence over my shoulder as I walk all over Manhattan Beach. As far as I know, she’d never been to California. But together, we notice how fit and sporty everyone looks here, and how California smells different than Florida. It’s saltier, drier.

  I make my way down to the beach itself. The sun has really warmed things up, and I sit down on the sand. The bookstore will be my next stop, but I realize I have another question for my new friend Jake. I tap the texting app and try Jake’s email address, in case they’re linked. Hey, it’s Rachel Kress. Do you know if there are any books I should read for Sr. Lit? Heading to a bookstore. Thx!

  It’s a long shot that he’ll be available to answer my question now. But I wait anyway. The ocean is blue and pretty, with little whitecaps. I take a photo and consider whether or not I should text it to Haze. Is that just mean?

  Before I can decide, my phone rings in my hand. The number is unfamiliar. “Hello?”

  “Rachel?” a guy’s husky voice says. “It’s Jake.”

  For some reason I get a warm flutter in my chest at the sound of his voice. “Hi,” I say carefully. “Thanks for calling me.”

  “Hey—no problem!” His voice is so cheerful that I find myself smiling into the phone. “Is your summer going any better now?”

  I watch the Pacific Ocean sparkle at the shoreline. “A little? I’m standing on a beach in California right now.”

  “No way! I’m standing on a beach in Massachusetts. Well, I’m looking out the window at it, anyway. We’re, like, patrolling both coasts at once. You see any pirates on your end?”

  “No,” I say, still smiling like a dope. Phone Jake is even cuter than Email Jake.

  “Me neither. Good thing.”

  “Right.”

  “So about your bookstore trip…”

  “Yeah?” I’ve already forgotten that this call has a purpose. “I’d love to get a jump on the reading.”

  “Do you know if you’re taking the English lit class first semester, or the Russian one? Any idea?”

  “I’d love to take the Russian one, but I don’t know if it’s up to me.”

  “Well, I know we’ll read Anna Karenina. And if you end up in the other English class, they start with Chaucer. I think?”

  “Thanks for the tip. Maybe I’ll read Anna Karenina and hope for the best.”

  “You’ll probably get a class schedule in two weeks or so. You could just wait and find out.”

  “But I need my very own L to paste on my forehead.”

  He chuckles into my ear. “Then don’t let me stop you. Mine fell off for the summer, but I’ll have it superglued up there again in a few weeks.”

  “Right.” I’m hit with a sudden burst of nerves. “It won’t be long now.”

  “You don’t sound so happy about that. Are you worried?”

  “Yeah.” I feel so hollow inside. Like I don’t have anything left of myself to make new friends and impress new teachers.

  “I’m kind of nervous about next year too,” he admits. “For different reasons than you. But my mom always tells me to ask—what’s the worst that could happen?”

  Mine already happened. It’s still happening. “Um, I don’t know. You first.”

  “Easy. The worst thing that could happen is I’ll make myself crazy all year trying to impress the astronomy department at Claiborne College. Then I’ll get rejected.” His voice turns gravelly.

  “You really want to get in? Nothing else will do?”

  “All my other choices are distant seconds. And it will be really embarrassing if I don’t get in.”

  “Hmm. But if nothing else will do, they’ll hear that. Just be crystal clear about how much you want to be there, that counts for a lot. Everyone wants to hear that someone cares, you know?”

  “You’re really smart, Rachel Kress.” I hear a smile in his voice.

  “People tell me that all the time,” I tease.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me your worst-case scenario?”

  “Um…” What to say? “I’ll throw up during my a cappella audition.”

  “But then they’ll know you really care.”

  “Oh shut up!”

  He laughs. “All right, so maybe it wouldn’t make the right first impression. But I think you can do it. If that’s really the scariest thing in your life, you’re not doing so badly.”

  If you only knew…

  “It’s good to talk to you. I have to get ready for work, though.” He sighs. “If it’s not too late a night, at least I’ll get an hour with my telescope on the beach afterwards. Supposed to be a full moon, unfortunately.”

  “That’s bad?” I guess from his tone. “Wait, are you a werewolf?”

  “Wait, you’re not?”

  We both laugh like crazy people.

  “The brightness of the moon hides other objects,” Jake explains. “I can’t see the smaller stars when the moon is strutting her stuff.”

  “Oh. Bummer.”

  “Yeah. Enjoy your vacation at the beach.”

  “Thanks,” I reply a beat too late. Vacation is a weird word for my trip to California. But I’m not about to explain right now. “Talk to you soon,” I say, hoping it’s true.

  “Bye!”

  * * *

  A bell tinkles on the door of the little bookstore. I like the place immediately, with its wooden fixtures piled high with new books. The bookstore smells of paper and big thoughts.

  “Do you have Anna Karenina?” I ask the young woman behind the counter.

  “Of course,” is her answer. “Which translation?”

  I falter, having no idea.

  “The Pevear is popular.”

  “Okay. That one, please.” I pull Frederick’s credit card out of my pocket. Daddy’s credit card. Haze and I had always scoffed at the kids who threw down their parents’ plastic for every desire. Now I’m one of those girls.

  “You forgot to sign your card,” the sales girl prompts, offering a pen.

  “Sorry, it’s new.” I sign my name on the back
in blue ink. RACHEL R. KRESS.

  When I was a little girl, my mother told me that the middle initial stood for Rose. For years, I’d written Rachel Rose on papers at school, because I liked the sound of it.

  When I was fifteen and applying for my learner’s permit, Mom had pulled out my birth certificate to take down to the DMV. That was when I learned that my true middle name is Richards.

  The whole thing is weird, really. She named me after someone she didn’t know that well—and then changed her mind?

  “Do you want a bag?” the sales girl asks.

  “No, thank you.”

  I feel my mother’s eyes on me as I walk out of the store.

  * * *

  Finding my way back to the zebra door is no trouble. I mount the stoop, ready to type the code into the keypad. But I stop because I hear Frederick’s voice, loud and strident.

  “We’re not going into the studio this month, guys. I know it sucks because you’re out the concert pay already. But I’m not ready.”

  “You’d better get ready,” Henry argues. “Canceling your summer gigs has already cost you more than a million bucks.”

  I freeze there, my hand on the door, choking on the number I’d just heard.

  “…also very expensive for your reputation,” Henry is saying.

  “I’m well aware of that,” Frederick snaps. “Since you like financial terms so much, just think of this summer as me paying back a debt I incurred in my twenties. It’s past due, and the interest penalty I owe is massive. Am I speaking your language now?”

  Whatever Henry replies, it’s in a voice too low to be heard over the pounding of my heart. I am stuck there on the stoop like a trespasser, unsure what to do.

  But after a minute, someone else says something, and then someone laughs. When it’s quiet again, I punch the access code slowly, then rattle the knob as I push the door open.

  The conversation stops. And once again, all eyes are on me. The million-dollar summer thief.

  “What do you have there?” Ernie asks. “Looks too thick for summer reading.”

  Embarrassed, I flash the copy of Anna Karenina quickly toward the living room and head up the stairs.

  “Nabokov?” Another voice says, “Dude, Freddy. She can’t be your…” He catches himself in time. Right before he says “daughter.”

  Into the awkward silence that follows Frederick says only, “Art, Anna Karenina is by Tolstoy.”

  * * *

  I got a text around nine o’clock. I’m mooning you, it reads. I’m only confused for a second, until Jake’s photo resolves onto the screen—a beautifully detailed shot of the bright moon against a dark sky.

  Chapter Ten

  The following week, I’m standing at the kitchen counter, sectioning a grapefruit. I perform this operation on a cutting board that I purchased the day before, after discovering that Frederick didn’t own one. Apparently, he never cuts anything. Yet he owns a set of fancy German knives in a sleek bamboo block. Go figure.

  As I work, I catch myself humming the melody to Wild City, and promptly cut the song short. Even though Frederick is showering upstairs, I don’t want to be caught singing one of his tunes.

  Not for the first time I wonder if that song is grounded in a true story. There aren’t any real towns nicknamed “Wild City.” And a Google search returns a million lyrics websites, but nothing about the song’s meaning.

  I’ve never been able to figure it out. Maybe there’s nothing to figure out.

  Wiping up the counter, I plan my morning. First, reading. And texting Jake. Our messages aren’t about school these days. We’ve been sending each other Youtube links to werewolf videos. And I’ll spend part of the day at the beach, where my inner groupie can hum to her heart’s content, and where I’m out of the band’s way.

  It’s been hard to get a fix on Frederick’s typical day, because there seems to be no such thing. There are days when Henry comes by to drag Frederick to meetings with “promo yokels” and “suits.” There are days when Frederick spends his time noodling at the piano, muttering to himself. And sometimes Ernie comes over alone, plugging into the little amp in the living room and playing with Frederick. Those are my favorite days, because I can lurk in my room upstairs and eavesdrop.

  Their chatter is as interesting as the music. It’s like living inside one of the quieter episodes of Behind the Music. Frederick might say, “I think I’ve got the melody, but I need to try it with more of a pop-radio rhythm. It needs that bounce.”

  And Ernie will reply with something about back beats or syncopation. And then they’ll play the riff again.

  I don’t know which sort today will turn out to be, since Frederick hasn’t come downstairs yet.

  From its place on the wall, the land line rings, startling me with its chirp. In the week I’ve been there, I haven’t heard that phone ring even once. I wait to see if Frederick will answer it. After three rings, I wipe my hands on my jeans and pick it up. “Hello?”

  “Hello, dear,” comes a voice. “Who is this?”

  “This is…Rachel.” Who wants to know?

  “Is Frederick at home? Tell him his mother would like to speak to him.”

  I gasp.

  “Hello? Are you there, honey?”

  Frederick pads into the kitchen, his hair wet. “Rachel? Is someone looking for me?”

  I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your mother,” I whisper.

  He looks at me for a long moment, and then takes the phone as one might handle a grenade with the pin pulled. “Okay.” He sighs. “I guess I’m doing this now.” He puts the phone to his ear. “Mom. Hi.” He listens. “Yes, she does sound young.” He laughs nervously, his expression one of comical terror. “Mom. Mom. Stop talking a second. There’s something I need to tell you. Actually, you might want to sit down.”

  I know I should leave the room and give him some privacy. But I can’t tear myself away.

  He puts his elbows on the kitchen counter. “Mom, I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this, but things have happened very fast. It’s not going to be easy…” He clears his throat. “Rachel is your granddaughter. She’s almost eighteen.” He closes his eyes. “Yes, you heard that right.”

  I don’t hear a thing for a minute, and then there’s a sort of explosion through the phone. I can hear my grandmother yelling at him.

  I turn around and flee the kitchen.

  * * *

  From the couch, I can hear half their conversation. Frederick closes the kitchen door, but I can still hear him saying things like, “I know it’s a shock.” And, “You have every right to be angry.”

  After ten minutes of that, the front door beeps, and Ernie puts his head inside. “Hi, Rachel!” he says. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” I swing my legs off the couch to make room for him to pass by me.

  He puts an instrument case down on the floor. Then he drops the newspaper onto the coffee table and sits down next to me. From the next room, we can both hear Frederick. “I agree with you, okay? It’s unforgivable. I am a total asshole.”

  Ernie raises his chin toward the kitchen. “Freddy having a little trouble in there?”

  “He’s on the phone with his mother.”

  Ernie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching his face.

  The bass player closes his eyes for a quick second, then takes a breath and opens them again. He reaches for the newspaper and unrolls it. “Want the music section?”

  “You go ahead.”

  Ernie snorts and then shows me the front of section C. It’s a heavily styled group shot of the boy band 1D. “Please tell me they’re not your favorite band.”

  “Nope,” I say quickly. Too busy being my father’s fan girl.

  From behind the kitchen door, Frederick starts shouting. “No! You and I are not having that conversation right now. No.”

  “Hey—” Ernie touches my elbow. “Did you feel that earthquake last night?”r />
  I nod. “My first one.” Around eight, the sofa had begun to wiggle in a way that sofas generally don’t. By the time I’d realized what was happening, it was over.

  “That was just a baby earthquake,” he says. “We’ve had some doozies. The aftershocks can go on and on.”

  It’s quiet in the kitchen for a minute. But Frederick does not come out. My heart uses the silence to try to crawl up my throat.

  “Do you play any gin rummy?” Ernie asks.

  “Rummy?” He’s obviously trying to distract me. “Sure.”

  He takes a deck out of a drawer in Frederick’s coffee table and shuffles the cards. I spin around to face him on the sofa as he deals onto the expanse of leather between us.

  The front door beeps again and Henry comes in. “Hi guys,” he says. “A lot of work getting done here today, I see.” He walks toward the kitchen door.

  “I wouldn’t go in there,” Ernie warns.

  Henry stops. “What untoward adventures has Freddy embarked upon today?”

  A shout comes from the kitchen. “Sure! Let’s review every disappointing thing I’ve ever done.”

  Henry jerks his thumb at the door. “Who?”

  Ernie discards a king of spades. “His mother.”

  Henry stares down at his phone. “I fear a delay.”

  I have amazing cards—a long string of spades and three jacks. Then I draw the jack of hearts. When I discard a king, Ernie winces.

  “Now wait a minute! No! No you cannot,” comes Frederick’s shout. “Not until you cool off. You know what? I’m done here.” I hear the sound of the phone slamming into the cradle. Then the kitchen door bursts open. He stops on the threshold. His eyes are pinched and his face flushed. There are sweat circles on his T-shirt.

  “Greetings,” Henry says.

  Frederick scowls. “Henry, what were we doing today? Please tell me your calendar says, ‘get very drunk.’”

  “We’re going over to see the suits.”

  “No fucking way,” he says, sliding past Henry to go upstairs.