by Ava Dellaira
Marilyn pulled a worn Montezuma Elementary T-shirt over her head. She turned to Angie and gave her a soft smile. “That’s great, sweetie. I’m proud of you.”
Angie felt her usual shame at those words. She wished she were more worthy of her mom’s pride. But maybe, now, she could be. Maybe she was about to do something that would matter, and even if it made her mom unhappy at first, maybe in the end it would be worth it.
“Tell him he can come for grilled cheese anytime,” Marilyn joked.
“Actually, Mom, Sam’s going to LA next week to see his cousin. Remember, he always does that at the beginning of the summer? And, well, he invited me to come along.”
Marilyn’s face shifted, awash with anxiety. “Oh, Angie, I don’t think that’s—”
“It would only be for eight days. I’ve never even been out of the state—I could finally see the ocean, Mom!”
“Angie, I—I can’t just let you go off, to some other city, without an adult, or … Where would you stay?”
“With his cousin. You keep saying I have to think about college. I could get him to show me around some of the campuses while I’m there.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in going to school in LA,” Marilyn said, her voice careful, as if trying to conceal an incredible fear.
“I just mean, it would just be good to start looking, to get a sense…”
“Well, I was planning on taking you on a college trip this fall. I thought we’d do that together.”
“Okay, well, I won’t look at the campuses, then. We’ll just do, like, touristy stuff. Go to the beach and all.”
“Honey, I don’t—I don’t think it’s a good idea. I can’t give you permission to go off like that … It would be different if there were a parent, or…”
“His cousin’s like twenty-four. He counts for an adult.”
“LA is a really big city, Angie. A lot could happen, things you might not be prepared for.”
Angie looked away.
“Listen, honey, next year you’ll be eighteen. You could be gone forever if you wanted to be … You’ll be going off to college, on your own, and—well, I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always do everything I can for you, okay, no matter what. But it’ll be up to you to make your own decisions soon. In the meantime, I’m your mom, and it’s my job to protect you, and I can’t do that if you’re—in a big city, far away from me…”
“It’s not that far away,” Angie mumbled. “Only like an eleven-hour drive.”
Marilyn paused and turned to Angie, her eyes almost pleading. “You’ll have all summer to reconnect with Sam, when he’s back.”
There were so many things Angie wanted to say, but before she said any of them, she got up and walked out of the room.
Angie had briefly considered telling Marilyn the truth—I know that my dad’s brother is alive. But she didn’t want her mom’s explanation, wouldn’t be able to trust it. She knew she had to find out for herself. Her mom had been lying for her entire life—why should Angie be honest now?
Marilyn came into Angie’s bedroom later that night, where Angie was halfway working on her college apps. “Are you still upset with me about LA?” she’d asked.
“No,” Angie answered, thinking, It’s so much more than that.
* * *
This morning, she’d woken with a start from some kind of nightmare. She couldn’t quite remember, but she knew she’d been swimming in the sea, pulled, suddenly, by a strange undertow. She could still feel herself choking.
Seven billion, Angie repeated in her head as she lay in bed, trying to calm herself. Seven billion. You’re just a drop in the ocean. Seven billion. She gasped for breath. Her technique wasn’t working the way it usually did. Something was different now. She was going to LA. She was going to look for her father.
After Marilyn left for work, Angie packed her things, ignoring the heavy pounding of her heart, ignoring the shortness of breath. She went into Marilyn’s room, opened her drawer, and took out the photograph of her parents at the beach, along with the manila envelope holding the rest of the black-and-white pictures. She looked at the collection of things on her mother’s dresser: the pink soap in the shape of a piglet; the turquoise earrings; the ceramic heart box filled with tiny, colorful clam-shaped seashells; a half-used jar of “Sylvie’s Lemon Lift,” with a homemade label that had been there for as long as Angie could remember; a laminated card with a hand-drawn picture of Marilyn and Angie on the front that Angie had made as a child. She picked it up, opened it, and read:
Dear Mommy,
You are very, very, very special to me. You are kind, loving, caring, wonderful, tremendous, understanding, and I could go on forever. You make everything fun. You are good-natured. Mom I love you more than you could ever, ever imagine. You are a million times better than any other mom. Happy Mother’s Day.
Love, your daughter Angie
Angie swallowed and replaced the card. As she walked into the kitchen, she saw the plate of eggs her mom had left her, covered to keep them warm, with a melon slice cut off the rind. A spike of pain—literally—shot through Angie’s chest. She ate the food, though each bite was a struggle, and washed the dishes. She took out a pad to leave a note, but couldn’t think what to say. Finally she wrote,
Mom, I went to LA with Sam. I’m sorry because I know you’ll be upset, and I don’t want to upset you. I love you more than the whole universe, like we always say. I know you love me too, but sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone is to let them figure stuff out on their own. I’ll be back in 8 days. I’ll be careful, don’t worry.
Love, Angie
Angie feels Sam’s hand on her leg, gently shaking her awake. “You should see this,” he says. She opens her eyes, bleary, to the pitch-dark. They seem to be on the freeway, in the middle of the mountains somewhere. The windows are cracked, letting in a rush of warm air. It smells the way she’s always imagined the ocean would. “At Your Best (You Are Love)”—her favorite song from the Miss Mari Mack tape—is playing on the stereo.
Sam must have started it over after she fell asleep.
As the Jeep crests the hill, suddenly millions of lights appear in the distance, scattered over the land like a magic trick.
“It’s beautiful,” Angie breathes.
“It’s beautiful,” Sam agrees.
Aaliyah’s voice is sweet, clear, weightless as light: Stay at your best, baby … Sam turns to Angie and smiles a small, slow smile. “Welcome to LA.”
Angie’s come here, to this sprawling city of seven million, to chase down a single ghost. As they drive through the night toward the seemingly endless city, she feels it. Her father is here, hidden somewhere among all those lights.
MARILYN
“Is she your girlfriend?” Justin asks his brother. He sits between James and Marilyn in the dark theater, the three of them halfway through their giant bucket of popcorn before the trailers have even begun.
Marilyn tentatively chews on a kernel and looks to James, waiting for his response.
“No,” he says, and her heart contracts, a hand in her chest tightening its invisible grip. “We’re friends.”
Justin raises his eyebrows. “But you’ve kissed her?”
James rolls his eyes. “Gimme one of those Milk Duds,” he tells Justin as the lights dim.
Marilyn attempts to focus on the previews. She herself would not have answered the question any differently, right? But since their second kiss three weeks ago, they have kissed—furtively and fervidly—several times. She’s begun to become familiar with the fact of his moodiness: like a morning glory missing circadian predictability, he blooms and closes according to his own internal rhythms, which she’s struggling to intuit. During their Saturday study sessions, some days he hardly looks up from his books, but other days, he’s eager to talk—about US history, college essay topics, jokes passed on from friends.
As The Mask of Zorro begins with a flaming Z, Marilyn looks to Justin. He doesn�
�t notice; his gaze is glued to the screen. Instead, it’s James who catches her eye. He gives her a small smile, and it’s enough to unclench her heart.
The movie’s good, but mostly Marilyn loves how much Justin loves it. As the two of them wait in the lobby for James to use the bathroom, Justin swishes an imaginary sword through the air.
“The only sin would be to deny what your heart truly feels,” he says in his best Zorro accent. As Marilyn laughs, he leans in and asks, “So has he kissed you?”
She can’t help but give him a small nod of confirmation.
“I knew it!” Justin cries as James walks back to join them.
“Knew what? Who’s starving?” he asks.
“Me!” Justin replies, despite the fact that they devoured a large popcorn and two boxes of Milk Duds. So they stop at a taco truck and drive to Elysian Park, where they eat, splayed on the grass.
Her belly full, early-November sun in her hair, Marilyn watches James and Justin beside her tossing a football, until Justin runs over, recruiting her to play. The three of them stay as the sky begins to dim, the prism of the evening breaking pink against the mountains. Driving past parks like this with her mom, Marilyn had often felt a stab of jealousy at the people barbecuing, hosting birthday parties, hitting piñatas. But now, James and Justin beside her, their laughter pealing into the fall air, she feels something she cannot remember having felt ever before, that is yet somehow familiar. It is the feeling of belonging distilled—clarified, purified; it is the feeling of family.
* * *
By the time they arrive back to the apartment, Marilyn’s face has bloomed with a sunburn. Thinking they were going only to the movies, she hadn’t bothered with sunscreen this morning, and now the boys tease, calling her Strawberry Shortcake.
“I’m not short!” she insists with a laugh as James parks. But when he goes to open the door, Marilyn freezes. Across the street, there’s Woody, pulled jaggedly into a spot, getting out of his truck. She can see by his zagging walk that he’s been drinking—doubtlessly returning from a bender at Commerce Casino—and she knows what alcohol does to his temper.
“I can’t go in yet,” she says, her breaths shortening, as James opens her door. He follows her gaze. Woody seems not to have noticed them, not yet, but if they walk up the driveway, he surely will. Marilyn’s heart pounds desperately against her chest.
“What are you guys doing?” Justin complains.
“Go inside,” James says, his tone measured. “Tell Grandma I went to the library and I’ll be back later.”
“I wanna come!” Justin protests, but James refuses firmly.
As they drive off down the block, James looks at her. “What happened?”
“Um—just my uncle. I—I guess he doesn’t want us to hang out, I don’t know why. He drinks sometimes, and he gets … bad.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
James stares out the windshield. “He’s a total prick,” he says finally.
“What?” Marilyn tries to swallow her rising anxiety.
“Years ago he was coming home drunk and hit my grandma’s car in the driveway. That’s where the dent came from. She was calm about it, asked him to pay for the repairs. He refused, tried to spin it like somehow it was her fault because of how she’d parked. My grandpa was pissed, of course, and confronted him the next day. Woody said some really fucked-up shit—”
“What did he say?”
James looks at her, shakes his head. “Nothing I actually wanna repeat. We tried to get him kicked out, but it didn’t work. Ever since, he’s been ugly to us. He called the cops last year when we had a birthday party for my grandma. It was family. Old people. They busted in, broke our door—Woody apparently said there were drugs, which they searched for. Finally they realized they literally had nothing on us and left, only after wrecking the place.”
“I had no idea. I’m so sorry,” Marilyn says, a vise grip on her lungs. A hot, dangerously hot, anger toward Woody burns in her center.
“Yeah, shit’s fucked up.”
“I can’t believe your family was so nice to me that day.”
“It’s not your fault you live with him … they probably felt bad for you.”
A stretch of uneasy silence unfolds as James circles through the neighborhood.
“What do you wanna do?” he finally asks.
Marilyn shrugs. She feels ill, seasick with guilt. “We can go back, I guess. He’ll be inside by now.”
James looks at her for a moment, and then, instead of turning toward home, he makes a left onto Washington and gets on the 10, driving toward the coast.
In the nine o’clock moonlight, the beach feels vast and private. There are a few scattered bodies—a jogger, a man sleeping on the sand, a group of kids huddled around what must be a joint—but they feel unreal to Marilyn, part of the backdrop. As if it were only her and James. He offers her a hoodie she pulls over her head—big enough she drowns in it. She inhales his smell, mixing with the salt scent of the seawater, and feels as if she can breathe again. She pulls off her sneakers and takes off running toward the water, leaving the ugliness of Woody, the anxiety, the anger behind.
James walks up, takes her hand.
“It’s so quiet,” she whispers.
“It’s the best time to be here. I come when I’ve gotta get out of the house. I’ll show you my spot,” he says. They walk along the edge of the shoreline, the waves leaving stains on the sand that reflect lights of a passing plane. She stops to pick up a mussel shell, the tiniest one she’s ever seen, and puts it into the pocket of his sweatshirt.
He leads Marilyn into the shadow beneath the pier, the old wood planks over their heads. Without saying a word he sits down and leans back on one of the poles, the moonlit water ahead of them disappearing into the night sky. And then, his hands are on her shoulders, pulling her to him, his mouth pressing against her mouth. She could handle James, beautiful James, kissing her—the intoxicating smell of his body, the fullness of his lips on her own—but it’s the childlike quality of his need that undoes her. She wants, in that moment, nothing more than to give him everything—whatever goodness can be pulled from within her, whatever grace lurks in the ocean echoing in her ears, in the curve of the open horizon visible through the slits of wood. His kiss is not just a kiss, Marilyn thinks. His kiss is the only kiss that’s ever changed everything.
He reaches his hand beneath her shirt, along her stomach. She arches her back. He kisses her breasts. She wants more but doesn’t know where to begin. She lets out a soft moan. She bites gently at his neck. Her body seems to move with the waves, pulling slowly back, then crashing with expectation against the wall of him. She wants to break through. She wants.
It’s James who regains himself first, who starts to smile between kisses, who pulls away from her and says, “I’m hungry, are you?”
Marilyn nods, but walking across the sand, she finds herself unable to recover from the absence as he recedes back into his own impenetrable skin. She longs for the blurred lines, the bleeding edges that open them to each other when their bodies take over.
They stop at a tiny stand, the only thing still open at this hour, where a girl with a bored look and a striped paper top hat gives them french fries and corn dogs. They sit on a bench and Marilyn devours her food too quickly. Her cheeks burn, maybe from the day’s sun, maybe from the lingering heat of him.
All at once, she finds herself blurting out, “So have you kissed any of the other twenty-nine girls there?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, that’s what your brother said—there have been twenty-nine? So I make an even thirty, right? That’s a good number. A lucky one?” She senses something bad creeping into her voice—insecurity, fear, a strange dread. She wants to push it down, but she can’t.
He looks at her for a long moment. “No, I haven’t kissed any other girls there.”
“But it’s true, though? You’ve kissed that many girls?”
“I haven’t counted. Why does it matter?”
She doesn’t know.
“That’s my spot. It’s where I go alone,” James says finally.
“Oh.”
“It was my mom who showed it to me.”
He shared something important with her, and she’d ruined it. “Well I—I loved it,” she says, but can’t make her voice convey the sincerity of the statement.
He smiles at her, not his bright-light smile, but a guarded one that won’t give itself over, and kisses her quickly on the forehead. It’s like the doors behind his eyes are slamming shut.
“We should get back,” he says.
“Okay.” She turns to the ocean, as if it has the answers. But from this distance it’s only a mass of darkness, bleeding into the night sky, pulling at the shore.
* * *
When she arrives back at the apartment after ten, she finds Woody dozing on the couch, and Sylvie, still in her work clothes, cleaning up from dinner. She gasps when she sees Marilyn.
“Where have you been? Your face! What happened to you?”
“Nothing, Mom, I got a sunburn at the park today.”
Marilyn turns to escape into the safety of her room, but Sylvie follows.
“Ellen called, and she’s made you an appointment for new pictures for your book on Wednesday, and you can’t very well show up like that; what are we going to do?”
Marilyn sighs. “I’ll put aloe on it. We’ll use makeup if it’s not better.”
“Your skin will be peeling off. I need you to—I need you to be straightening your priorities, Marilyn, I—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Were you with him?”
“Who’s him?”
“You know who!” Sylvie whispers back vehemently.
“He has a name. Yes, I was with James.”
“I thought I told you to stay away from him!”
Marilyn pulls the sleeves of James’s sweatshirt over her balled-up fists.
“Well, you didn’t. And I won’t. You told me to keep it away from Woody, which I was trying to, but I can’t believe—I didn’t realize what he did to James’s family.”
