“Okay, here’s a reverse one. Hurricane Dana,” I say.
“Oooh. I know that one.” Jake is so excited, he starts to vibrate.
Jake is smart. Scary smart. People assume he’s stupid because he’s got a disability, but they’re dead wrong. If anything, he’s disabled by his superbrain. The carrots are back on the floor.
Mom rushes down the stairs, her uniform hanging open, her overstuffed purse dangling from her arm. “Can you make dinner, Kyles?”
She kneels down and picks up the carrots.
“Mom, please don’t do that. Jake can pick them up. Right, Jake?”
Jake says nothing.
Mom continues to gather the carrots into the bowl with one hand as she buttons her uniform with the other. “Oh, Kylie, it’s just carrots. Don’t be so hard on him.”
Jake looks at me, and we have a moment of understanding. He’s gotten away with it, as usual.
“Here, honey.” Mom hands me a piece of paper with an elaborate chart sketched on it. “He’s got to do three sets of fifteen each, okay, and that includes the arm stretches and the hopping thing the doctor showed us the other day. He needs it to improve his balance. And don’t forget the pills.” If Mom paid one tenth this much attention to me, maybe I wouldn’t have lost my mind on a squash court this afternoon.
“Okay,” I say.
“I want to play guitar tonight. I don’t want to do the stupid exercises.” Jake’s mood is shifting.
“You can play guitar, honey, after you and Kylie do the exercises, and after you eat dinner. Kylie, I left some salad in the fridge, but you can make some pasta or something. And Dad should be home in a half hour. He came back a day early.”
Mom works as a nurse at Piedmont Retirement Village four nights a week. I’m in charge of myself and Jake those nights. And Dad, whenever he’s around. God knows what will happen once I leave. Dad doesn’t spend a whole lot of time taking care of anyone but himself. He mows the lawn and takes out the garbage, such classic dad duties it would be funny if it weren’t slightly tragic.
“And can you do the laundry, Kyles?”
“Is that clean or dirty?” I ask, pointing to the mound of clothes on the floor.
Mom stares at the pile, confused. “Can’t remember. Can you poke around and figure it out?”
“Sure,” I respond. What else can I say?
Mom pecks Jake on the cheek and then rushes out the door with a wave. “Bye, guys. Love you.”
I look at my watch. Mom’s going to be twenty minutes late to work. Typical.
This has been my life for as long as I can remember. Mom is so distracted by Jake, everything else is an afterthought and I’m forced to pick up the slack. Normally, I don’t complain. It’s pointless. It’s just, today I’m so not into sifting through a heap of potentially smelly clothes and then whipping up dinner for three. I comfort myself with the thought that I’ll be gone soon.
But that comfort is fleeting. As much as I want to escape, I worry about how Mom will handle things on her own. On the one hand, it makes me want to enroll at UCSD and just live at home. On the other, New York City doesn’t seem far enough away. The moon doesn’t seem far enough away.
I’m interrupted from my roundelay of anxieties by Jake tugging at my sleeve.
“Can I tell you the answer? Can I tell you? Can I tell you?” Jake has been waiting patiently, and now he’s bursting to answer the question I’ve long forgotten. Still, he’s made impressive progress at his new school. I am reminded what Jake is capable of when he sets his mind to it. A year ago, he never would have had the self-control to wait. “September 1987. Grenada had bad flooding. Grenada had bad flooding!!”
“You’re amazing, Jake,” I say. And I mean it.
Jake could do this for the next ten hours. He will do this for the rest of his life, actually. This, and recite every iteration of the dozens of bus schedules that service the greater San Diego area.
I wade through the laundry and realize, to my relief, that it’s clean. One less thing to do. I grab the clothes and start to head up to my room. “Jake, I’m going upstairs for a little bit. You want to watch TV? Or read your book?”
“I want to tell you about the Garbage Patch,” Jake whines. “You have to hear about the Garbage Patch. You just have to.…”
I can feel myself shutting down. I just want to proof my valedictorian speech one last time, and get back to my screenplay. But then I see Jake’s hands trembling. He’s verging on a tantrum. I look at his sweet, open face, pleading with me for more time. I plop onto the couch with the laundry.
“Tell me, Jakie,” I say.
I fold the laundry as Jake settles onto the floor.
“Well, it’s twice the size of Texas and located in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It’s made up of plastic and other forms of debris, like fishing nets. Garbage from all over the world gets sucked in by an oceanic gyre, which is a huge system of rotating currents.” He speaks with the zeal of a true believer. It’s not so much the words I’m hearing, it’s more the cadence.
“It takes about five years for a piece of garbage from the west coast of North America to be carried into the gyre. So if I lie down on a raft tomorrow, I could get to the gyre by 2017. Nobody knows how long it’s been there, but it’s growing larger every day. At some point it might just fill up the ocean so that we are the island and it is the land. I don’t understand why someone doesn’t just clean it up.”
He makes a good point.
Two of Jake’s friends who also have Asperger’s, have the same lilting quality to their speech. When all three of them are together, it can sound like a spoken symphony. They say people with Asperger’s can’t understand basic human signals, the little things we all do that mean “I don’t understand” or “You are standing too close.” They are always bumping up against a world that confuses and thwarts them, and occasionally, this foreign planet and its people can be too much for them, and they can rage, as Jake does sometimes, when his brain erupts into flames. Pure pain and anguish shoot out of him in the form of a tantrum. Despite the fact that I’m the “normal” kid in the family, I understand Jake’s behavior only too well. I experience it myself, albeit in a muted form. Sometimes I wonder who the normal sibling is. I’m rarely ever as happy or comfortable with myself as Jake can be. I wish life were easier for both of us. It would be nice to slip through the world, smooth and slick as arrows whizzing through air, instead of always crashing into things.
As Jake buzzes on, my mind drifts back to the worry stream, and I find myself lost in the current again. How will Jake deal without me? What if he can’t find his blue sweatshirt, which happens at least twice a week? What if Jake spits on his teacher again, Mom can’t leave her shift, and Dad is traveling? That happened last year, and I skipped my math test to pick him up.
And, on the B side, what about me? Wouldn’t it be ironic if Jake was just fine when I left, and I turned out to be the basket case, all alone in New York City? Who will be excited to see me when I return to my dorm after a long day of clawing my way through the city? Who will comfort me? Who will I confide in, without Will and Jake around?
But if I stay, I’ll never leave. And then what?
This is the drain of being me. I can’t seem to find the joy, just the dilemmas. A Möbius strip of crazed thoughts loops through my brain on constant rotation. I’ve wanted to go to NYU forever. When I got in—with a full ride, no less—my parents weren’t the least bit pleased to hear the news. Especially in light of the fact that I’d gotten into Brown, Princeton, and the University of Pennsylvania the same week. Mom and Dad were dead set against NYU, which is pretty funny since they know nothing about it. Unlike all the other Freiburg parents, they weren’t really involved in my college applications. Still, they knew enough to be alarmed that I was turning down a scholarship to an Ivy League school. They begged me to go to Brown, where I got a substantial amount of money. They didn’t fight for Princeton or UPenn, because, frankly, we couldn’t have afford
ed it. New York City scares the shit out of them, despite the fact that neither has ever been there.
“Be premed. Or prelaw. Do something practical,” Mom pleaded.
She can’t understand why I want to write movies. Though she hasn’t come right out and said it, she doesn’t think I have a chance in hell of actually succeeding at it. As far as Mom and Dad are concerned, I might as well sell cotton candy at the circus. But I am like a dog with a bone. Sheer tenacity won out over their eventual fatigue.
The front door opens and Dad walks in. He’s carrying a huge box of medical supplies.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey, guys. Kylie, want to help with this?”
I get up and help him with the box. Dad’s been trying to sell medical equipment lately. I say trying, because it’s not going very well. Even though people still get sick, nobody wants what he’s selling, which is some new sonogram machine that’s twice the price but ten times more exact.
“So, how’d it go?” I say.
“Not great. Better luck next week, hopefully.” Dad gives me a weak smile.
Dad used to sell electronics at Circuit City, until they went out of business. (Which is kind of weird, considering everyone at Freiburg seems to have a house full of the latest, greatest, shiniest electronics. Rumor has it Deborah Sneeden has a retractable flat screen television in every room in her house. I guess the Sneedens didn’t buy their electronics at Circuit City.)
“Dad, Dad, I learned to play ‘Sergeant Pepper’ on the guitar, wanna hear?” Jake has grabbed his guitar and is swinging it around manically.
“Whoa there, buddy, let’s put that down. Don’t want to break it.”
Jake ignores Dad and starts strumming the guitar. It’s not exactly music, but it’s something. I’m proud of the fact that Jake is trying hard. Who cares if he can hit the right chords?
“I’ll tell you what,” Dad says, preparing for his exit. “Let me relax for a bit, and then maybe we can have a concert. Okay?”
Jake keeps playing, but Dad is already en route to the garage to fiddle with one of his beloved motorcycles, none of which he even rides. He’s much more interested in his old bikes than his kids. He’ll come back into the house for an awkward dinner—made, served, and cleaned up by yours truly—and then settle onto the couch with a six-pack, and be lulled to sleep by the dull sounds of episodic television.
I get that his life sucks (having doors slammed in your face every day must be soul-crushing). I get that selling medical equipment may not have been his lifelong dream (not that I have a clue what he’d rather be doing, since he never talks about his past). But I’d be a lot more sympathetic if he were more pleasant on the rare occasions when he was home. And if he took the time to talk to me or Jake about…anything. Maybe it’s a chemical thing and he just needs some pharmaceuticals (not likely that will ever happen). Or maybe this is just the way Dad is drawn. Anyway, I’ve kind of given up trying to get to know him. I’m outta here. But Jake’s not. So as long as I’m in this house, I’ll fight the good fight for Jakie; not that I actually expect it to yield results.
I follow Dad out the back door.
“You know, Jake notices that you’re always disappearing into the garage. You could spend a little time with him every now and then.”
“Kylie, I do not want to have this conversation. I’ve had a long day.”
“It’s like you avoid him. How do you think that makes him feel?”
Dad turns around and looks at me.
“I don’t ignore him. I’m just tired. Working on the bikes helps me relax. I’ll come back in soon.”
Same old story. I’ve been hearing it for years.
I think Dad blames Jake for his unhappiness. Maybe if he had the perfect son, with whom he could play football or ride bikes, he wouldn’t be hiding away in the garage. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe Dad’s just a complete jerk. I’m not sure. Neither option is particularly appealing. I’m holding out hope for the former, but as the years march on, I have to say, the latter is gaining ground.
“Whatever,” I say, turning and making my way back into the house.
“Kylie…” Dad calls out, feeling a tinge of remorse, I’m guessing. Maybe he is human.
I turn around. “Yeah?”
“I’ll come in in a half hour. And I’ll listen to Jake play. Tell him that, would you?” Dad looks sincere, like he wants to be a better man. I think it’s just an attempt to assuage his guilt.
“’Kay. Sure,” I say. What I don’t say is, I’ll believe it when I see it. Which is never.
Dad has cut himself off from the world. It occurs to me that I cut myself off from the world, too. I may have an inherited tendency, but I’m hoping I’ll outgrow it. Or I’ll learn to fight against it. The one time I saw a different side to my Dad was when my grandmother, my Dad’s mother, was alive. She would come over every Sunday for dinner and Dad would dote on her. He was warm and sweet with Nana in a way he seems incapable of with me or Jake.
I return to the living room, where Jake is now watching TV. I sit back down on the couch to fold the rest of the laundry. My cell begins buzzing like a cicada.
“Hello?”
“Kylie?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, it’s Max.”
Max? Seriously? How bizarre. I say nothing, though I’m rolling my eyes.
“Kylie?”
“What?”
“Listen, about today. You were right. I, uh, shouldn’t have blown you off.”
I’m a cynical, cold little bitch a lot of the time, but as soon as it’s clear Max is apologizing, I feel a swift rush of warmth spread through my body, and my initial temptation is to forgive him immediately. What a wimp.
“Kylie? Did you hear me?”
“Uh, yeah. And, uh, I’m sorry about walking into your squash game and kicking Charlie. I got a little carried away.” Breaking no records here for verbal dexterity and imaginative retorts, I’m folding like a house of cards.
“Yeah.” Max laughs. “You were pretty worked up. Anyway, if the paper means that much to you, I’ll do it. Or, at least I’ll give you what you need so you can do it for me.”
Max is sorry, but not enough to refuse my idiotic offer to write both papers. It’s my own fault. Several moments of awkward silence go by.
Finally, I manage a weak, “Okay. Whatever.” Jesus, that was lamer than lame.
“How about we meet at Roland’s Coffee Shop down by the pier tomorrow morning?”
“Um, I don’t really know where that is. Can’t we just meet at Starbucks on Randle, at seven thirty?”
“Sure, my treat.”
“I can pay for my own coffee,” I shoot back. I’m so sick of everyone reminding me that I’m the scholarship student. “I already agreed to meet you once, and you didn’t show up. How do I know it won’t happen again?”
“I’ll be there. If I’m not, you can come find me in Shuman’s Calculus and beat the shit out of me.”
“Okay. Whatever.” I’ve got to stop saying that stupid word.
“See you there,” Max says, and then he’s gone.
t’s 7:55 and she’s not here yet. I’ve downed two espressos and now I’ve got a caffeine buzz that’s making me tweaky. Her payback for yesterday, I guess.
I look around the Starbucks and can’t help but feel annoyed.
I wish we could have met at Roland’s. I should have just given her directions. Starbucks just pisses me off. I know it’s a cliché to hate Starbucks, and while I try not to be a cliché, I can’t help it. Starbucks is ruining what used to be great about the city.
They’re taking the cool old buildings down and replacing them with big brown boxes.
This one used to be a run-down little doughnut shop with the best coffee ever. It was a stumpy, two-story, red brick building. I used to come in once a week to check out the crowd and take some pictures. All kinds of people came in for coffee, from cops to football players, from Westview High to homeless people. Th
e old guy who owned it weighed, like, three hundred pounds. He had long dreads and a goatee. I took some pretty awesome photos. But then Starbucks swooped in, offered him cash, and leveled the place to make room for the caffeine heads. Like they didn’t already have enough places to go.
Charlie’s dad said there are Starbucks in China now. All those old Chinese ladies who used to squat outside their homes, sipping tea, are now going to Starbucks and ordering up Mistos. Depressing. The whole world is one big strip mall, separated by large bodies of water. What is there to see if everything looks the same? Gaps, Starbucks, Panera. At the very least, it makes me feel better that I never seem to get out of La Jolla. But does that make me a part of the problem?
I’ll give Kylie two more minutes and then I’m out of here. It’s the last day of high school and I’m stuck at Starbucks waiting for Kylie Flores. I should be in the quad right now, hanging with Charlie and Lily. I should be carving my name into the palm tree on the Great Lawn, which is one of those stupid Freiburg rituals that has gone on for, like, eighty years. I swore I wouldn’t participate, because it’s kind of pathetic, but now I’m feeling kind of sentimental about the whole thing. I want to leave my mark just like all the other seniors.
Okay, where the hell is she? I’ve lost all interest in being a good guy. I don’t know what I was thinking. I should have blown the whole thing off. I’m supposed to be kicking back. I’ll have enough to do next year at UCLA, between Lily, squash, and classes. It’s my fault for taking pity on her. Nice guys totally finish last.
I get up and head for the door, which is when Kylie literally walks into me. Her backpack falls to the ground, smashing my foot.
“Shit. What do you have in there?”
“Just…stuff. Sorry. You okay?” Kylie asks me.
I don’t say anything. I mean, it hurt, so, no, not really.
“Anyway, sorry I’m late. I had to get my brother to school, and it, uh…just took longer than usual today.”
“It’s cool,” I say. But I don’t mean it. I’m over it. She’s late. She hurt my foot. It’s easier to be an asshole. “You wanna get some coffee or something?” I ask, hoping she’ll say no and we can get on with it.
From What I Remember Page 4
