by Sara Zarr
Jill gets up and comes around to my side of the table. “Seriously, are you sure? Because if you’re anywhere near going into labor, let’s call my mom right now.”
“No, she’s only kicking. Here, feel.” I take Jill’s hand. We’ve never touched before. Her skin is cool and dry and rough around the cuticles. I put her hand on my stomach, firm.
“Oh my God,” Jill says. Her face has that real expression again. “Is that her foot?”
“Maybe. Or her elbow or knee.”
Jill laughs and looks up at me, eyes sparkly. “She’s, like, doing a whole routine in there.”
“Yeah. This is her active time of day. Usually you’re at work.”
“That’s… wow.” She stays crouched down by me, feeling everything that’s happening inside me.
The café door opens, letting in a gust of cold air. A man walks in, tall and young, in a ski parka and purple knit cap. His skin is almost the color of Christopher’s but a tiny bit more brown. I notice him before Jill does, because she’s still putting her hands all over my belly. He looks at us, at Jill, really, and his lips spread into a smile and his eyes go soft.
“Jill,” he says.
“Hey,” Jill stands up. “I know you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“This is Mandy,” she says, as if I’m somebody. “Mandy, this is… oh, crap, I’m totally blanking on your name.”
“Clark,” he says to Jill. “It’s been a while.” He reaches his long arm down and across the table, offering his hand to me. “Mandy, nice to meet you.”
“Your hand is cold,” I say, shaking it.
“Well, it is snowing.”
We all laugh.
“Go get coffee and sit with us.” Jill pulls an extra chair to our table, and Clark goes to the counter to order. He’s the opposite of Dylan—tall, clean-cut, grown-up.
“Did you date him?” I ask Jill.
“What?” She glances over her shoulder at Clark and lowers her voice. “What makes you say that?”
“The way he looked at you when he came in.”
She prods the cake with her fork, eyes down. “I think I would have remembered his name if we went out, Mandy. I’m not that much of a tart, even if I do want a tattoo.”
Clark takes long steps to us and sits down. He pulls off his cap and runs his hand through his neat black hair. Naturally black, not dyed, like Dylan’s. “So,” he says to me, “having a baby, huh?”
“Astute observation there, Clark,” Jill says, emphasizing his name in a funny way.
“Yes. In almost exactly four weeks. Jill’s mom is adopting it.”
Jill looks at me. “Her. Not it. Do you always go around telling strangers about the plan?”
“Her. It’s not a secret,” I say to Clark. “I’m not embarrassed. I know I’m making the right choice.”
“Really?” Jill asks. “You never have a moment of doubt?”
Yes, I think. Of course. The closer it gets, the more moments of doubt I have. Those are only emotions, though, not reality. My mother made decisions based on emotions. Fear, usually. Of being alone or not having a good place to live or that this will be the last man who wants her. She didn’t think things through and look down the road and see how what she felt was right today might not be what she thought it was, all the things that could go wrong.
“No,” I say. “Have you met Jill’s mother?” I ask Clark.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“When you do, you’ll understand how I know what I know.”
Clark looks at Jill. “That’s a nice compliment for your mom.”
“Yeah,” Jill says. “It is.”
We all talk and people-watch. What I notice is how different Jill is with Clark here. She’s not so scary. She doesn’t seem so much like she’s mad at someone. Like she hates life. And Clark asks me questions about me and the baby and my plans for the future. Making real conversation. I answer without giving too much information. I enjoy this, the same way I enjoyed talking to Dylan. Except Clark is a little different. And anyone can see he likes Jill. He keeps looking at her for reactions, and asking her if she wants more coffee, and sitting closer to her than he needs to. It makes me think of how Christopher looked at me, and how maybe someday, when I’m not so pregnant and I figure out who I’ll be, someone could look at me like that again.
It’s nice to end the day with a sense of possibility instead of sadness.
Jill
Saturday morning breakfast at our favorite diner is the first chance in days that Dylan and I have had to really talk, and you’d think I’d have a lot to say, that I’d want to tell him about last night. Okay, not the part about how I felt when Ravi walked in the door at almost the same second I felt the baby kick, but the rest of it. How I actually had a good time with Mandy.
Dylan is barely alive, slumped in the booth and holding his cup of coffee level with his nose, lowering it every few seconds to take a sip.
“You look like crap,” I say, finally.
“Thanks.”
“How late did you stay up?”
“Um… all night?”
“I guess band practice takes a long time when none of you know how to play or sing or write.” I should have known that starting the conversation this way would not set a good tone. The waitress sets down my Greek scramble. “I didn’t know you were in a band,” she says to Dylan. She’s our regular, Babette, who isn’t all that young but pierced and tatted head to toe, and a local music scenester. “What are you guys called? Where do you play? Are you in it, too?” she asks me.
“No,” I answer, laughing a little. More at the ridiculousness of the idea that she would have heard of them than the idea of me being in the band.
“The Potato Rebellion,” Dylan says.
Babette laughs. “Love it.”
“What happened to the Postulates or whatever?”
“New direction.”
“Right,” I say, spreading jam on my sourdough toast. After Babette moves on, I spear some home fries with my fork and wave them in front of Dylan’s face. “Rebel against this, sucka.”
He doesn’t react. “And what did you do last night?”
“I took Mandy out for coffee. Showed her the time of her life.”
Dylan’s eyes narrow. “Oh, did you now. Funny, because last time we talked, I seem to remember that you hated Mandy and thought she was out to ruin your mom’s life.”
“I never said I hated her.” I don’t think. “Anyway, maybe I changed my mind. Maybe I’m giving her a chance.”
“You changed your mind. I see.”
“I felt the baby. I—” He stares; I eat another bite of potatoes. My friend Ravi was there. And I felt life. Not just in Mandy but in me. “We had fun, that’s all.”
He sits up straighter. “I’m sure this newfound interest in Mandy has absolutely nothing to do with what you were telling me the other day about getting that guy at work to help you smoke her out. I’m sure you’re not, like, luring her into some evil trap you’re setting just to prove you’re right.”
That’s the Jill he believes in. The Jill he’s been putting up with. The Jill I seem to instantly become again now. And, I mean, he’s right. That is why I took Mandy out. But when I got home, I didn’t even care anymore about any of that. I went to sleep thinking my dad would probably love Mandy as much as Mom does. Dylan takes my silence for guilt, which is only half right.
“She’s a nice girl, Jill. You know? Maybe give her a break.”
I shake hot sauce onto my eggs.
“Do you even know anything about her life? And what she’s been through?” He’s sincerely scolding me, big-time, as if he and Mandy are best friends. “Her mom is this world-class bitch.”
I stop mid-chew. “What do you know about it?”
“I talked to Mandy when I went to your house to pick up my history book. It came up. I told you.”
“No, you didn’t.” Did he?
“I did! I totally did!” He p
uts his fork down. “You don’t listen to me. Seriously, Jill, not to make a thing out of it, but I feel like you haven’t listened to me since…”
Our eyes meet.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “that for example you could think about me once in a while. In addition to thinking about yourself.”
In classic Jill style, I turn on him in my hurt. “Is this about the band? I’m sorry, but the whole time I’ve known you, you have not expressed a single iota of interest in being in a band, so it’s hard to take seriously.”
“You don’t have to take it seriously. I don’t take it seriously. It’s for fun. It’s something fun and new to do to get out of the rut.”
“The rut? Thanks.”
“The Rut, capital R. Not the rut of you, or of you and me. The Rut of life. We’re all in it from, like, the day we’re born. It’s good to mix it up a little.”
I push my plate away. “Very philosophical of you.”
He scrunches up his napkin and tosses it onto the table. For a couple of seconds, I’m pretty sure he’s going to get up and walk out, and I feel ready. I almost want it, can almost picture him gone, and with him the Jill I’m sick of, and then I could start over. He doesn’t move, though, which shouldn’t surprise me. Dramatic exits are not Dylan. He leans back against the booth and pinches the bridge of his nose, squinting. “I missed you, Jill. While you’ve been going through your thing. Like crazy I’ve missed you, and when you hid in my car that day, I was so freaking happy, even though I pretended not to be. But now I remember we didn’t always get along that great.”
So he’s noticed.
“That’s part of the Jill-Dylan charm?” I say weakly.
Dylan nods, a lie of a nod, his eyes fixed on his coffee cup.
The barista at Dazbog says hi when I walk in, and points to Ravi at a table by the window. “He’s over there.”
We’re officially regulars. It’s our place. And it’s the first time I’ve had that other than with Dylan.
“Clark?” I ask, joining him. “Really? Why is every boy in the world obsessed with Superman?” We don’t have much time before my shift. There’s a coffee shop closer to work, of course, and one at work, but we have this unspoken understanding that it’s best not to have these meetings too close to Margins. Too close to Annalee. Annalee is the most unspoken part of all.
“Superman?” He runs his hand down his tie. It’s one I haven’t seen before—kind of a rose-and-navy-striped thing. No glasses. This Ravi makes me feel different from the way the jeans-sweater-glasses Ravi does. A little on edge.
“Clark,” I say. “Clark Kent? A.k.a. the Man of Steel?”
“Huh. I was thinking of William Clark. As in Lewis and Clark.” He gazes at me. “The explorers?”
“Yes, I’m familiar, but that’s…” Then I catch something in his eyes, around his mouth. Ravi has made a joke. “You were not thinking of Lewis and Clark.”
“No, I was not.”
“You were thinking of Superman.”
“Totally thinking of Superman,” he says with a conclusive nod.
“Well, I hope you like it, because you’re stuck with it for the duration of this whole Mandy thing. By the way, iced coffee is not coffee. Just so you know.”
He rattles his ice at me. “I’ll file that information away under J, for Jill Is Wrong.”
We’re flirting. Nothing serious, just the way friends do. I was always good at that, since seventh grade, when I discovered my sense of humor and figured out how to use it. Maybe that’s what Ravi saw that made him write that I seemed smart and funny, that he wished we could have talked more. These days I’m more likely to clear a hallway or hear someone say “ouch” after I make a “joke.” I want to go back to this. This is better; this is energizing and doesn’t leave me feeling like an asshole.
I’m thinking of my comeback when Ravi says, “Hey.” And I know whatever is next is not going to be about Mandy and not going to be flirting. No more joking around.
“Hey what?”
He opens his mouth.
“Don’t ask me how I am,” I blurt. “Please?” I want to keep feeling good. Just because the lights are on doesn’t mean I have to look.
He closes his mouth.
I brush a crumb off our table, something left by a previous customer, and keep brushing well after it’s gone. “Sorry, Ravi,” I say, unable to look at him.
“Let me ask you a different question, then.”
“Okay.”
“You know how I said I’ve always thought of you as a friend, and maybe you could pretend that we are?”
I nod. I’ll never forget that.
“Are you…” He’s squishing his straw wrapper into a tiny ball with long fingers. “I mean, I know it started because you only wanted help with Mandy. But I think it would be good, or what I’m saying that I want to know… sorry.” He leaves the wrapper alone. “Is this pretend?”
I put my hands in my jacket pockets and shake my head. “No.”
“So… if we’re not just pretending, and we really are friends, I can ask you how you are. Right?”
“I guess that is how it works. Technically.”
“I thought so.” He folds his arms over the table. “Jill?”
“Yes, Ravi?” I look at him and make efforts at a smile, trying to find the humor in the moment but only feeling raw as a burn, like if someone brushed against me right now, I’d yell out in pain.
“How are you?”
I close my eyes. Make myself think about it before answering. “I’m okay. I mean, you know. I don’t know. Kind of weird.” I laugh. I shouldn’t be laughing.
“Weird how?”
“Weird like the whole last year has been a mistake. Or a dream. The way I’ve handled it. Like… I’ve messed up my ‘grieving process’ or whatever. And I can’t go back and do it right.”
My eyes, now open, maintain contact with his.
“I don’t think there’s a right way to do it. It’s hard enough that your dad died. Don’t criticize yourself for how you’ve dealt with it.”
I blink. “Okay.”
“You’re doing great,” he says.
“I am?”
“You’re doing your best.”
I really am. As short as it falls, I really, really am. And I love him for saying that.
“Do you want to talk about Mandy?” Ravi pulls out his notebook.
“I guess.” I shift in my seat, get focused. “What did you think? She’s not normal, right?”
“She does seem pretty awkward,” he concedes. “And young. How old did you say she was?”
“Eighteen.”
“She comes off younger.”
“I know. I just figured that was part of being from Corn Country, and being small, and not being all that bright. I’m already feeling bad about last night,” I confess. “The lying about who you are and all that. She really had a good time, you know? She kept talking about it on the way home, how neat the coffee shop was and how nice you were and everything. And when I felt the baby…” and looked up at you, everything seemed possible again.
“You don’t have to do this. We can forget the whole thing.”
“But what about the red flags?”
“They could all be explained away.” He puts his pen down, closes his notebook. “I only want to help you. If you want me to try to check Mandy out further, I will. If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”
I toy with the cardboard sleeve on my coffee cup. I don’t even know anymore what I want, if I started this to protect my mom or because I didn’t have anywhere else to put my anger, or if it was all an excuse to bring Ravi closer, and if that was it, why can’t I just admit it?
“Are you going to the store tonight?” I ask. There’s frustration in my voice, which surprises us both.
“I’m on duty, but I have some follow-up to do at a couple of the other stores. I’ll probably stop by, though.”
“To see Annalee.” It comes out of its own
free will, is what it feels like. It’s not what I mean to say. It’s not where I mean to go.
“To work,” he says, flipping some pages in his notebook, something for him to look at. “To thwart evil.”
“And see Annalee.” God. Shut up, Jill. If you don’t want to be this person, then stop. Fucking. Being her. “Isn’t she kind of old for you?”
Ravi flinches. “She’s seven years older.”
Why isn’t he saying it doesn’t matter, because they’re not dating? Why isn’t he flirty again and making a comment on the two-year age gap between us? That’s what I want him to say, I realize. That’s where I want the conversation to go.
“Old. You’re only nineteen.” I try for a smile, try to make it playful.
He pauses, and I can tell he’s straining with all his might to read my tone and get it right. It’s awkward. It’s painful. We turned a bad corner; I want to take it all back. “We both like Doctor Who,” he says. Which I’m sure he thought would be a safe answer.
What he’s about to find out is that no one is safe with me when I’m this mad at myself. “I mean, that’s fine if your whole ambition is to work at Margins the rest of your life, dating the staff and living with your parents. Great goals.”
We stare at each other, both stunned. Ravi looks injured, and I’ve hurt myself, too. After this great moment of trust and connection and letting us be friends, I had to go and do what I do.
“So, um,” he says, quiet and self-conscious, the way I imagine he was back in Schiff’s, “take some time to think, and tell me what you want to do.” Louder, more confident, he adds, “About Mandy, I mean. You’ll figure it out, Jill. You’re a smart girl.” He stands, pointing to my cup. “All finished?”
“Yep.”
He takes it with the rest of our trash. “See you.” And he’s gone.
Yeah. I’m so smart.
Mandy
I’m standing outside Jill’s bedroom door with a cup of coffee. The coffee is for her. Robin showed me how to make it the way she likes: with a lot of half-and-half and a little bit of brown sugar. “She also likes it when I throw some cinnamon into the grinder with the beans, but we’re out.” Robin pulled her robe around her body and said, “Remind me again why you’re taking coffee to Jill? Don’t let her boss you around.”
