by Amy Andelson
I talk myself out of ringing the bell again. It’s getting pathetic, and I’m not eleven years old anymore. I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to kill a couple of hours before we all meet back up, when I turn around, and there he is. Or a version of him, anyway. His hair is longer and grayer, and his skin is tanner, all of which somehow makes his eyes look greener. Or maybe it’s just that for once they’re not bloodshot. But hell, the day is still young.
What’s more unrecognizable is the whole scene. He’s returning from somewhere on a bicycle with a quaint wicker basket. Which means, inconceivably, he was up and out early in the day. Unless he’s only now returning from last night? But he’s in workout-type clothes, and the basket on the bike holds a bag of what appears to be groceries. Is it possible he really did get sober this time? As I try to make sense of it all, he must be doing the same, because it takes us the same number of seconds to greet each other questioningly.
“Hi, Dad,” I manage at the same time that he says, “Amos? Wow! Hey!”
“I was in the neighborhood,” I answer as ambiguously as possible. I watch him watching me, trying to determine if he knows that he’s got a son on the run. But he seems to accept the unlikely circumstances more easily than one would expect. That’s the thing about Clay. He exists in such a different dimension that, for better or worse, he never lets himself get too mired in the logistics of any particular situation. So instead of asking me what I’m doing here in California, at his door, or where my mother is, he simply says, “Would you like to come in?”
His house is posh yet bohemian—exactly what you’d expect from a trust-fund deadbeat with an artistic aesthetic. Smooth cement floors, a kitchen with new appliances I can’t imagine he’s ever used. There’s not enough furniture in the place, but the pieces he does have are good—his father’s original Eames chair, and the Le Corbusier lounge chair that he loved to pass out on in our old living room. Did he somehow manage to take that with him when he left? Or did Louisa send it to him when she exorcised every last bit of our old life? The place is littered with paint splatters, serapes, and surfboards. I study the space, trying to understand him, or maybe I’m just looking for traces of myself. I just need something to grab on to, to confirm that this man I haven’t seen in years is connected to me in any real way at all.
Now that I’m inside, I can tell that Clay doesn’t quite know what to do with me. In an effort to avoid his asking me too many questions, I throw Clay a bone and make some easy conversation.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I offer innocuously.
“That’s right—you haven’t seen it since the remodel. Still moving things around here and there,” he says, taking stock, and it’s hard to tell with him if he’s self-conscious or proud. He’s hard to read, with his whiskey voice and that mischievous grin. No wonder Louisa fell for him. She can be such a fool.
“Yeah, it’s only been, what, three years?” I say pointedly, because sometimes I just can’t help myself.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Neel asks me.
“Positive,” I reply, without missing a beat.
Because I’m over being so me about everything. Of always being the one to sit on the bench with the chaperone while the other kids ride the roller coaster, or being the only one at summer camp too afraid to jump off the high dive. I don’t know why I was such a cautious kid. I remember being eight years old on a trip to visit my dad in New York when he took me to see Les Misérables on Broadway for the first time. And as soon as the orchestra began to play the overture, my heart began to beat out of my chest. I ran out of the theater and into the lobby. Dad followed me, and I told him I was having a heart attack.
Turned out it was an anxiety attack. The first of many I’d have throughout my childhood. They sent me to some frigid shrink, who said I was probably just homesick. I doubted the diagnosis, because the anxiety continued even when I was back home with my mom. And then, when she was killed, it was like all my anxiety was confirmed. And I knew that the world really was as dangerous and callous and cruel as I’d always suspected it to be deep down in my bones.
It’s the central truth that everyone tries to hide and lie about, especially to children. Like some grand conspiracy. I always knew different, but they tried to deny it, which made me feel crazy. But once Mom was gone, they couldn’t deny it anymore, and I knew I had been right all along. Poppy’s the same way—I can just tell. And now I’m torn because I want to shield her from it, too. But then I’d be just like them. And Amos always says the hottest fires in hell burn for hypocrites. We really have to figure out what to do about Poppy. I don’t want her to be broken like me.
“Ow!” I shriek, overcome by the heat and throbbing in my nose from the needle prick.
The next thing I know, Neel’s tongue is in my mouth, and my face is red and throbbing for an entirely different reason. I’ve never been kissed in public before. In fact, I usually find public displays of affection cringeworthy. But being kissed by Neel, in front of all these people, is thrilling and consuming in a way that makes me forget all about how gross it is when Bennett and Sabrina suck face for hours on the steps of the Met, and how annoying it is when Aisha and I practically have to pry them away from each other so we don’t get a late slip every single morning.
“Feel better?” Neel asks when our lips finally part.
“Much,” I reply, trying to will the rosiness out of my cheeks. I lightly touch the gold stud that now pierces the side of my nose. It feels tender and sore, but the tatted guy at the store assures me the pain will subside in a few hours. He’s got about twenty piercings in his left ear alone, so I figure he knows what he’s talking about.
“Can I get this?” Poppy comes over to me as I settle up at the cash register, holding a colorful hand-blown glass pipe.
“Do you know what that is?” Neel questions her, while privately cracking up.
“What is it?” Poppy answers innocently.
“Nothing, Poppy. Put it away. We’re not going to waste our money on that,” I say, grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the shop.
“You all right?” Neel asks as we emerge from the shop and into the glaring midday sun.
“Yeah,” I lie. “I think the incense in there was starting to get to me.” Because once we’re back in the bright light of day, whatever brief thrill I felt from Neel’s kiss feels fleeting, and I’m reminded once again of Amos’s sudden absence.
I know he went to see Clay. What I don’t know is why. Or why he didn’t talk to me about it first—especially since he seemed so opposed to the idea when I mentioned it at the airport yesterday. I try to remind myself that not everything has to do with me, but part of me can’t help but feel like Amos took off the way he did because of me. Or, more accurately, because of Neel and me. I know it seems childish, but I think it’s possible that Amos felt left out, and taking off to see Clay like that was his way of leaving me out. Because even back when Amos and I used to tell each other absolutely everything, Clay was always a touchy subject.
It wasn’t like Amos and I never talked about my mom or his dad. It was more like we had this unspoken understanding to tread lightly around the topic of our absent parents, each allowing the other to start those sensitive conversations. For me it was too raw, too recent—all that pain lingering too close to the surface. But for Amos it was different. I could never tell if that was because Amos was embarrassed by Clay, or at least the man Louisa continually painted him to be, or if in a strange way Amos revered his father. And as grateful as I was for our “understanding,” I hated that he had something separate from me.
It’s just that Amos can be so untouchable sometimes. It’s like one minute he’s right there, and just his very presence is everything you could ever need. Without making a big deal of it, he’ll do these little things that show you he knows exactly who you are. Like when we see a movie, and t
here’s a sad part we didn’t expect, where maybe a parent dies or something, he’ll always suggest we go for ice cream after, or give me dibs on the TV remote. It’s just his way of letting me know that he knows when my throat tightens up and my heart feels like it’s breaking all over again. And that makes me feel less alone. Every time Amos does something like that, he puts the pieces back together for me.
But then, the next minute, he’ll do something cruel—like secretly apply to boarding school and leave without even a goodbye. Or disappear to see his estranged dad, and not even tell me where he’s going.
“Holy shit!” Neel calls out. “Guess who just popped up in my news feed?” He flashes his phone, and there it is—a link from the New York Post. The Page Six headline reads: “On the Run,” and there are pictures of Amos, Poppy, and me below.
When Clay offered to make fresh juice with his newly procured produce from the farmers’ market, I accepted in pure shock and morbid curiosity. In the entirety of my experience with my father, the only thing I’d seen him make was a stiff drink. Granted, the only thing I’ve ever seen my mom make for dinner is a reservation, but still, it was better than the nights when she had a work event and I was left alone with Dad, and dinner depended on if he remembered to eat at all.
So you can imagine my surprise when Clay unpacks a cloth sack full of fruits and vegetables I can’t even identify, and proceeds to expertly prep them before feeding them into some steel contraption. Out comes a concoction of celery, wheatgrass (whatever that is), kale, cucumber, and various other veggies, which he splits between two cups. He hands one to me.
Clay raises his glass and says, “Salud.” He downs his completely, while I’m still eyeing mine dubiously. He waits for me to sample his specialty, so I man up and take a swig. It requires all my effort not to wince or gag as the grassy slime slides down my throat, but I smile graciously and nod in approval.
“That’ll put some hair on your chest,” Clay says, tossing his sly grin my way, and I still can’t tell if he’s suspicious of my arrival. Clay comes out from behind the white marble counter that divides the kitchen from the main living space, and settles onto the sofa.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” he says, looking at me closely. This is it. He’s going to lay into me for not returning any of his recent calls. Or worse. He knows I’m a fugitive. Shit. I sit down as instructed and brace myself for what’s to come. But instead he picks up a guitar that’s leaning beside the couch, and he nonchalantly starts to tune it. “So, Sonny, what’re you doing out west?” he casually asks, without a note of concern. I have to make a critical decision—how honest am I willing to be?
“I had a layover,” I answer, not totally lying. And again, strangely, that seems enough to satisfy him for at least the time being. I decide to change the subject and divert attention away from my unexpected LA appearance. I’ve learned that people, when given the opportunity to talk endlessly about themselves, usually take it. And Clay, it turns out, for all his idiosyncrasies and extravagances, is no exception.
All I have to do is ask him how life is treating him, and sit back as he launches into a soliloquy about how proud he is of the way his practice is evolving, and how dedicated he’s been to nurturing it lately. I’m thinking, Good for him, he must be taking his twelve-step thing seriously. That would explain all the green juice. It turns out he’s talking about his yoga practice. But hey, whatever works.
And just to indulge him a little bit, I act super enthralled, and keep asking questions, and sipping this disgusting drink, which I’m actually starting to enjoy. LA can be so insidious like that. At first, an eighty-degree December day seems appallingly unnatural, but watch out, because after a few hours of blue sky and wide empty beaches, you too will wish you were a yoga mat–toting, green juice–sipping dude strolling along Abbot Kinney in the City of Fallen Angels. That’s the thing about LA—despite your initial impressions to the contrary, it’s intoxicating. Like Clay’s green juice. Or the man himself, for that matter.
When Clay invites me upstairs to check out the latest piece he’s working on in his studio, I say yes a little too eagerly. Why am I worried about embarrassing myself in front of him? He leads me up the staircase to his open studio space. There are skylights above, and there’s a glass wall that faces the beach, so it almost feels like we’re floating above the sand. In the center of the room there’s a giant slab of some kind of marble-like rock that’s just beginning to be chiseled away. I follow him over to a drafting table at the side of the room, and he pulls a bunch of sketches out of a portfolio. And that’s when I see it. Standing side by side, we have the exact same hands.
So we’re missing. Officially. Not like we weren’t missing before, but now it all feels much more real. This is bigger than us now—like an avalanche that keeps growing and can’t be stopped. Jack and Louisa have gone public—we’re national news. Guess the email we sent last night didn’t ease their minds. That’s okay. Let them worry. Let them care for once. Let them see that the kids are not all right. There’s a tiny voice that’s worrying if this will get me in trouble at school. And how will this look on college applications? But my heart is beating out of my chest, and despite the tiny voice, I just want to keep moving. Mostly because it seems impossible to stop.
I turn to Poppy. “The worst thing we could do is act suspiciously. Let’s just be cool,” I say, trying my best to heed my own advice.
“It’s gonna be fine,” Neel says, as he takes his baseball cap off his head and places it on Poppy’s in an attempt to cover her up. “See? Incognito,” he says. I sigh. It’s not much, but it will have to do.
I wish I could call Amos right now. I need to tell him about the article in the Post, but of course I have no way of reaching him. I curse him for leaving us. We’re not supposed to meet for another forty minutes, so Neel suggests we check out the farmers’ market. We wait for the traffic to slow, and I take Poppy’s hand as we all quickly dash across the street and toward the bustling crowds.
“Hey! You three! Stop right there,” a voice calls out from behind us. We turn around, and a police officer walks over to us slowly, deliberately. I knew it. We’re busted. She’s tall and her stride is strong. And she’s got her eyes fixed on Poppy and me. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks us.
“Um…,” Poppy mutters as she looks up at me, her eyes full of fear.
“You kids think you’re above the law?” she asks pointedly as she takes a pen out of her shirt pocket.
“Officer—” I try to interject, my voice wavering.
“Jaywalking is a finable offense in this jurisdiction,” she reprimands us. Jaywalking? Seriously? I think, relieved she doesn’t recognize us.
“Apologies, Officer,” Neel says, suddenly speaking in a British accent. “We’re here on holiday. And we simply did not know.”
“Please take pity,” I pipe in, with just about the worst fake accent I’ve ever heard. I have to bite down on my tongue; otherwise I will burst out laughing.
The officer shakes her head. “You know, the point of the law is so that you don’t get yourself killed.”
“Yes. Of course. And we promise to follow it from now on,” I say, my eyes desperately begging her to just let us off the hook.
She gives us each a once-over, then finally relents. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. But you kids need to be more careful. The drivers around here can be crazy.”
“Thank you so much, Officer,” I say, and quickly usher Poppy and Neel away from her and into the open market. I don’t know how much longer my nerves can take this.
“Ohmygosh I thought she was going to arrest us,” Poppy says.
“Nice accent,” I say to Neel.
“What? I thought I sounded pretty legit! You, on the other hand…”
“How about we t
ry to avoid any more run-ins with the law. That was seriously close.” I try my hardest to shake off the Post story and the interaction with the police officer. Just stay calm, Flynn, I tell myself. Everything’s going to be fine.
I walk past a stand where a woman is selling every berry imaginable, and I slip a strawberry into my mouth. Neel helps himself to the samples at the stalls wherever available—nut butters, artisanal honey, fresh-baked breads, and more. The air smells like kettle corn, and I finally start to breathe like a normal person again. As I browse the various booths, I find myself fidgeting with the new piercing on the side of my nose. I can’t believe I actually did it. And by it, I mean something. Anything. I like touching it to remind myself that it’s there. A real, tangible mark. Of what, I’m not quite sure—independence? Bravery? Rebelliousness?
It’s funny, not like funny ha-ha, but I guess funny interesting, because I used to privately make fun of those girls who would come back to school after summer break and their hair would be dyed jet black or bright blue. Or the sweet girls who were in honors math with me at the lower school, and then all of a sudden were giving blow jobs in the bathroom at parties. You know, those girls who were so aggressively trying to shed one image for another. But I understand it now. Sometimes you have to destroy what was there in order to let something new emerge.
As I contemplate my own cause, I decide to do something else. I grab Neel and kiss him—trying to re-create the way he kissed me back at the piercing place. I can taste the hummus on his tongue. It feels even more exciting to kiss him out here in the open—in broad daylight. I decide to be even bolder, and open my eyes. His face is right there next to mine, his eyes gently shut. I wonder what he’s thinking as he kisses me. What the people around us are thinking—if they’re thinking about us at all. What must Poppy think? Poppy!
