The Accidentals

by Sarina Bowen

  “Okay. I can work with that. I don’t have any winter clothes at all.”

  “The stores on Main Street have coats. Claiborne is right on the Appalachian Trail, so outdoor gear is the one thing you can always buy.”

  “That is a good tip, Jake. I don’t know where I would find a winter coat in Manhattan Beach, anyway.”

  “I’ve never been to California. Are there movie stars everywhere?”

  “Um, no?” I giggle nervously. There are probably rock stars downstairs, though. “I haven’t spent much time here. As far as I can tell, it’s like Florida, but even more expensive.”

  “Yeah? I’d better go. Time to serve clams and beer.”

  “Good luck out there.”

  “Thanks! Talk later?”

  I agree and we disconnected. But now Jake has me thinking about school clothes. I’d seen a J. Crew catalog in Frederick’s pile of recycling by the front door.

  With the catalog as my mission, I finally venture downstairs.

  The scene in the living room is lively, with a dozen or so people standing around talking. The lights are low, and everyone holds a drink, including a handful of unfamiliar women. In spite of all these guests, Frederick stands against the piano talking to his drummer.

  “Hey, kid!” Ernie tugs on my ponytail as I take in the scene. “There’s a whole lot of Thai food in the kitchen,” he says.

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  “Ernie, honey. Come back here.” A woman beckons to him from the sofa. Apparently Ernie has other games besides rummy on his mind tonight, because he hustles over to her.

  I lean down and dig through the stack of newspapers until I find the catalog I’m looking for. Tucking it under my arm, I head for the kitchen.

  Nobody stares at me, like on my first day in California. Tonight they do the opposite. I’m invisible.

  The kitchen counters are covered with takeout containers. Two young women in tiny shorts huddle in front of the microwave, their giraffe legs accentuated by impractical platform shoes.

  Ignoring them, I grab a paper plate and begin to peer into the various plastic tubs. I pocket a can of Diet Pepsi before a giggle turns my attention toward the girls in the corner. When one of them straightens her back, I glimpse a straight line of fine white powder on the black surface of the countertop.

  Fascinated, I watch as the second girl bends low, inhaling powder through a little paper tube.

  “We might share,” the first girl says, and that’s when I know I’m staring. “Who are you here with?”

  I just blink at her, shocked by both her hobby and the question. I grab a paper carton full of some kind of steamed dumpling and flee the kitchen without answering.

  Upstairs again, I eat dumplings and flip through the catalog. And it’s really a shame I’d been too stunned by the cocaine on the kitchen counter to grab any dipping sauce.

  As the night wears on, the front door opens and closes again, but this time the tide is running out. The voices in the living room diminish to only a few, and someone puts on Elvis Costello at a low volume.

  I sit crosswise on my bed, flipping through the catalog, until the front door opens once more with a bang, and the quiet conversation downstairs breaks off at once.

  “Fucking hell!” a female voice rings out. “I get a text that the party is at Freddy’s house tonight. And I think—that’s impossible! Because if Freddy was back in town he would have called me.”

  My father’s voice says something low and soothing.

  “Really?” Her voice is shrill. “Because you don’t look like a guy who was about to pick up the phone to call me.”

  I can’t hear Frederick’s response, but it makes the woman even angrier. “You never told me to keep my voice down before. Not when I was screaming your name in bed. Who’s going to hear me, Freddy? I can’t wait to find out.”

  And then I hear feet stomping up the stairs.

  A few seconds later, a woman walks right past the door to my room, as if heading for Frederick’s. But since mine is the only light on upstairs, the woman turns, and a startled face peers into my bedroom.

  “What the hell?” she yelps. She has shiny brown hair and big eyes, like a doe.

  For the second time that night, I’m speechless.

  “Liz,” my father’s voice barks up the stairs. “That’s enough already.” He sounds tired. “Leave Rachel alone.”

  She retreats. I don’t hear any more of their exchange, but the front door opens and shuts again a minute later. And then Frederick’s footsteps slowly climb the stairs. His face appears in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” It’s your house.

  He sits on the foot of the bed, and then rolls backward, his hands behind his head. “I’m sorry. That was…”

  “Classy?” I supply.

  He laughs. “Right.”

  “But not as classy as the two girls who were blowing coke on your kitchen counter.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if blowing coke is the right terminology.

  Frederick lifts his head. “No shit?”

  “They offered me some. I guess if the social worker calls to check on me, I won’t mention it.”

  He jackknifes into a sitting position. “Rachel, you know drugs are for assholes, right?”

  I look into his serious face, and try not to laugh. The anti-drug pamphlets they hand out at school would be more entertaining if they were titled: Drugs are for Assholes. And his expression is priceless. “Well…” I clear my throat. “I only get high about twice a day. It helps to keep my blues away.”

  “What?” He gapes at me.

  “It’s a song, Frederick. The rhyming couplet should have tipped you off. I guess you’re not a fan of BranVan 3000?”

  He flops onto his back again. “Jesus, Rachel. That’s not funny.”

  “I’ve never even seen cocaine before, except on TV.”

  “Welcome to L.A. So who were these girls?”

  “Um, no idea? They had on short shorts and tall shoes.”

  “Well, that’s half of Southern California. How old?”

  “Young. Younger than you.”

  “Well that’s most of Southern California.” He scrapes his face with one hand. “I might need to get out of L.A. for a while. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “Why? Where would you go?”

  “I was thinking of getting a place in Claiborne this year. If I can buy you a coffee every couple weeks, that seems like a low-key way to make sure you’re doing okay.”

  Nothing he’s said to me yet is as shocking as this suggestion. I don’t even know where to begin. “Can you do that? What about work?”

  “I’d only be there about half the time, and traveling the other half. But I wouldn’t mind getting away from here for a while. Too many people are pulling on me.”

  “But… Henry makes it sound like you have a lot to do here.”

  He shakes his head. “In the first place, you don’t worry about that shit, okay? That’s my problem.”

  Well, ouch. For somebody who doesn’t know how to be a parent, he’s got the leave-it-to-the-grownups line right.

  “And anyway, Henry says those things because the record label is pressuring him. But I’m not ready to record. My head is in a hundred places.”

  “Will they be angry?”

  He stretches his arms overhead. “Whatever. Recording artists are always pulling this crap. You wouldn’t believe the excuses those guys hear. ‘I can’t play today, because Mercury is in retrograde,’ and ‘I have a splinter in my left butt cheek.’”

  I smile up at the sloping ceiling. “What about this house?”

  “What about it? I’ll probably keep it.” He rolls onto an elbow. “Tell me what you really think.”

  “I think that it sounds like a lot of expense and trouble.”

  “If I stay in California, I might not see you for months. That’s not good enough.”

  Really? It was for seventeen years.
My heart rate accelerates, and I ask him one of the questions that’s been burning me up inside. “Why did you bring me here anyway?”

  His eyes widen just slightly. “Because you asked me to. I mean—Hannah called. But she wouldn’t have called if you didn’t need a place to go.”

  This explanation bounces around in my chest like a rubber ball. Because you asked me to. Angry Rachel isn’t satisfied with this answer. What would have happened if I’d asked him a year ago? Or ten? Would he have come running?

  In the silence, I hear my mother whisper a question in my ear. Why should you have to ask at all?

  “Doing some shopping?” Frederick asks suddenly.

  I look down at the forgotten catalog in my lap. “All my clothes are for hot weather. And Claiborne has a dress code.”

  “Ah, right.” He makes a face. “Is it still plaid skirts and clip-on ties?”

  “Not quite that bad. You can’t wear jeans, and they want collared shirts.”

  “Better you than me. Carlos could drive you to the mall.”

  “Which one?”

  “Uh.” Frederick cups a hands to his mouth and yells. “Henry! We need a consult.”

  A moment later the manager bounds upstairs, a beer bottle in his hand. “What’s shakin?”

  “Where do people shop?”

  “Shop for…?”

  “School clothes,” I say slowly. Apparently Frederick never does anything without consulting Henry. So now we’re having a school-clothes powwow in my room? Unbelievable.

  “The Galleria in Redondo,” Henry says without missing a beat. “Macy’s, Abercrombie. The Gap.” He glances at my catalog. “J. Crew is in that place on Sepulveda.”

  “Or,” Frederick says. “If you hate malls, you can just put that catalog in your suitcase and order one of everything when you get to New Hampshire.”

  “The reclusive method,” Henry says with a smirk.

  “Nah.” Frederick gives Henry a playful kick. “Just practical.”

  Henry pulls out his phone. “I’ll book you for an afternoon at the mall with Carlos, okay Rachel?” He pokes the screen. “And I see your birthday is coming up. What should I be planning for that?”

  “Good point.” Frederick turns to me. “Fancy restaurant?”

  That just sounds awkward. “Let’s just go somewhere you always go.”

  “Every Sunday there’s a Cuban band playing at a seafood place in Hermosa Beach,” my father says.

  “Great food,” Henry agrees. “But Ernie and the guys might be there.”

  Live music and a crowd appeals more to me than sitting alone with Frederick. “Let’s all go, then.”

  Chapter Twelve

  On my birthday, I wake up to an email from Haze, and therefore a stab of guilt. I left things so badly between us. His message contains no text, only a photograph of him, arm in arm with Mickey Mouse. Mickey holds a sign which reads, in black marker, Happy Birthday, Rachel!

  I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” my father asks. He’s made a run for bagels and cappuccino—his version of making me a birthday breakfast.

  I turn my computer so that he can see the picture.

  “Cute. So you’re still friends.”

  “I guess so.” I begin to labor over my reply.

  Haze— I love the pic! What’s that uniform you’re wearing? Space Mountain? Or the Astro Orbiter? I hope that you’re loading old ladies onto the people-movers, because at least that’s in the shade. I’m going to spend the day trying not to think about last year’s birthday, when my mom took us out to Steak & Ale, and then we all went into the wrong movie theater by accident, and missed the first ten minutes of our show. Once upon a time, that seemed like a bummer, right?

  Okay, this message got very heavy all of a sudden. So I’ll close by saying, “look, puppies!”

  Love always, Rachel.

  His reply is a picture of puppies. “Wish I could be there,” is all he writes.

  * * *

  That night, Ernie pulls up outside the house in a cherry-red convertible.

  When I reach for the back door, he shakes his head. “No—the birthday girl sits up front.”

  “Aw, hell,” Frederick complains. But he slips into the back with a smile.

  “I look better sitting next to her than you,” Ernie says, putting it in gear.

  So I ride to the restaurant in style, the salty breeze tangling my hair. A valet steps forward to open our door when we arrive, which makes me worry that my skirt and top aren’t dressy enough. But inside, the restaurant is casual.

  We’re a table of five. By now, I’ve begun to get a fix on my father’s friends. There’s Ernie, of course. He’s the soulful one, who always thinks before he opens his mouth. The other musicians—like Art, the drummer sitting across the table from me—aren’t as close to Frederick. They’re like orbiting satellites. Insubstantial.

  Henry is more complicated. He’s a scrapper, always pacing, spitting out ideas. But I don’t understand their dynamic. Henry presses on Frederick, pushing him to see people and make calls. But in turn, Henry seems to do a lot of very menial labor. He orders lunch, he answers Frederick’s phone for him. Even now it’s Henry who’s trying to flag down the waitress.

  “Hey, Mari! Can we get a pitcher of sangria?” he asks.

  “And a Diet Coke,” I say before the woman walks away.

  “Nice, Henry. Leave the lady out,” Ernie teases.

  The manager colors. “I forget that she can’t drink.”

  The waitress brings five glasses anyway, and so my father pours me an inch. “To turning eighteen,” he says, raising his glass. They all toast me, which makes me feel incredibly self-conscious.

  Frederick orders a dozen things off the menu, and I sample everything from ceviche to stuffed lobster. And when the dishes are cleared away, my father reaches into his jacket and fishes out two little boxes. “This one first,” he says, tapping the bigger box.

  With four pairs of eyes on me, I untie the ribbon and open it. Inside is a new pair of sunglasses in a leather case. “Hey, thanks!” He must have noticed that mine are beat up and awful.

  “Let’s see them,” Ernie prods.

  I put them on.

  Across the table, Henry smiles. “That’s very L.A. Well done, Freddy.”

  The other box is even smaller. And after I remove the bow, I see that it reads Cartier in red script.

  “Score,” Henry says approvingly.

  I crack open the box and find a wristwatch inside. It’s simple in design, but beautifully sleek. When I lift it out, the metal feels weighty in my palm.

  I’ve never owned anything so expensive.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. And it’s true. Except that now I will be expected to put it on, as I did with the sunglasses. And that means removing my mother’s Timex, and replacing it with this gift from my father.

  The very idea makes my throat feel thick.

  Their eyes are on me. So I lift my purse onto my lap. Carefully, I take off my mother’s watch and zip it away in my bag. Then I drape the metal bracelet around my wrist and fiddle with the clasp. “Thank you,” I whisper, and Frederick winks.

  I put my wrist in my lap, feeling traitorous. The food in my stomach feels like lead. And all I want is to rewind my life to a time where Mom and Haze and I eat a cake in the kitchen and then go to the movies. The restaurant feels too crowded all of a sudden, and my eyes are hot.

  It’s the music that saves me. The Cuban band starts up with two guitars, bongo drums, a stringed bass, and a beat-up, old trumpet. Their bright rhythms fill the room, and I began to drift on the river of their sound. The lights are dimmed, and drinks refilled, and two women show up—one next to Ernie and one in Henry’s lap.

  I watch the absorbed expressions on the faces of my father and his friends. I’m envious of the way they lose themselves in the moment, as if the rest of the world has fallen away. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like that again, or if grief will always follow me.
r />   * * *

  The sunny L.A. weather the following week offers no clue that summer is drawing to a close. The only sign of change is the flurry of mail from Claiborne Preparatory Academy arriving in Frederick’s P.O. box.

  I spend hours poring over the information. I learn how to rent a mailbox at the post office and how to connect to the school’s computer network. I study the campus map as though cramming for a final exam.

  “Another envelope from Claiborne,” Frederick announces one morning, handing it over. Inside I find a single sheet of paper, reading ROOMING ASSIGNMENT. My new dormitory building is called Habernacker.

  “Good name,” Frederick says.

  “Do you know where that is?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t wander around the prep school. It’s on the other end of town.”

  “Some help you are.” I unfold the paper. “My roommate’s name is Aurora Florinda de Garza Garcia. Her address is in Madrid.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Frederick says. “A European girl with four names.” Whistling, he leaves the house to get a haircut.

  When the door shuts on him, I recite my roommate’s name again. Just the sound of it gives me butterflies in my stomach. So I text Jake. I’m in a dorm called Habernacker. My roommate is from Madrid. I type out her name.

  No way! comes the quick response. I’m in Habernacker too. Your roomie’s name is not familiar. Probably a transfer? I have two roommates. Both exchange students.

  This is going to be okay, right? I ask, feeling silly.

  Sure. And if it isn’t, I know the town really well. We can hide their bodies.

  Way to be creepy, Jake.

  It sounded funnier in my head, he replies.

  In the kitchen, I take out a skillet and make myself a grilled-cheese sandwich. While it toasts, I indulge in singing one of my father’s songs. “Stop Motion” has been stuck in my head since I heard Frederick and Ernie play it yesterday. I’ve spent the summer stifling every impulse to sing. But with my father out of the house, I let it rip.