by Anne Pfeffer
“So how come your social worker wants me to keep you here?”
“I dunno.” He zips his pants. I step backward to block his path, feeling the hard-edged door handle behind me jab itself into my side.
“You going back?” I ask. “To the Teen League?”
He stops and looks me over, as if he’s trying to figure out how hard a punch I pack. “What’s it to you?” he says.
“She asked me to bring you back. I can’t force you to come. But I can ask you nicely.”
“And I can say no.”
But I see his shoulders relax as he says it. He reaches up, pulling the hood off his head.
“You don’t like the Teen League?” I ask him. “Because I’m here on a job interview. If this place sucks, you gotta tell me, man.”
“This is only my second time here.” He runs a hand over his hair, which is in a buzz cut.
“How did the first go?”
He shrugs.
“What’s your name?”
“Roberto.”
“I’m Ryan. Help me out, okay? I can’t afford to lose this job.” I add, “And I can still whip your ass at B-ball.”
“Cannot.”
“Can, too.”
We walk back down the hallway together, and I ease him through the door of the Teen League. The social worker’s standing there with Amanda Lewis and some other lady I haven’t seen before. The new lady puts out her hand. She has lots of dark wavy hair and these floaty clothes and big gold earrings that make me think of a gypsy.
“I’m Bridgette Connolly, Staff Director. I’m sorry you had to wait so long, Ryan.”
“It was no problem,” I tell her. “Roberto and I played B-ball.”
“And I kicked your ass!” He gives me this cocky grin.
I point a finger at him. “Only temporarily, my friend. Next time, you go down.”
“In your dreams.”
“Gotta go. See ya.”
I go into the interview and field questions from Bridgette and Amanda. We’re in Bridgette’s office, which is full of sun and hanging ferns. She has a large corkboard on the wall with snapshots of teenagers.
Her eyes follow my glance. “Those are all kids that have come here for help.”
“I’m really interested in this program,” I say. “My best friend had substance abuse problems, and I think it’s what killed him.”
Then, my mouth says something that surprises my brain. “I’m looking for a subject for a school project and was hoping to find it at the Teen League.”
“Oh?” Bridgette Connolly is looking at me with interest. She has unusual cinnamon colored eyes that add to her gypsy look.
“I want to make a film as part of my project. A documentary. About some of the kids here. Maybe about someone like Roberto.” As soon as I say it, I know it’s a fantastic idea. I will do this. I will make a film for Michael, and it will be amazing.
“Well,” says Bridgette. “You certainly knew how to handle Roberto. The last time he was here, he wouldn’t talk to anyone at all, and then he ran out of the office and disappeared for forty-eight hours. The police had to bring him home.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can think of to say.
“I think you’d do great here,” Bridgette says. “Now that you’ve seen and heard more, are you still interested in volunteering with us?” She moves a paperweight around on her desk as she talks.
“Very,” I say. “I’d be available next year, when I’m a senior.”
“You’d be required to go through our six-week training program.”
“Great,” I say. “Sign me up!”
“It’s during the summer.” She gives me the dates. It’s right in the middle of the England trip.
My brain goes into a slide, like a person walking on ice. It’s skidding around, trying to regain its grip on the ground, while my mouth continues to speak, saying God only knows what. The interview ends. I shake hands with Bridgette and Amanda and head out to the elevator.
What did I say to them? It comes back to me.
“This summer?” I had said. “Sounds great. I’m very interested.”
Chapter 47
After a day at school, I drop my heavy backpack on the floor and fall on the sofa in our den. My face is buried in a pillow, and my legs are hanging off the end of the couch. It’s a hot day, and I am probably sweating all over Mom’s French-Chinese-silk-whatever upholstery.
I have a math test tomorrow and a Spanish quiz. I groan to myself. It’s almost five o’clock already, since Emily’s rehearsal ran late today.
Someone walks in and sits down, without speaking.
I peer over the top of the sofa cushion. “Hi, Mom.”
She perches on the arm of a big chair, as if she’s not sure she should stay. She’s wearing designer sweat pants and a sweat shirt that I’m sure were never intended to be sweated on for even a moment. She has what seems at first to be this really bizarre necklace, but then I realize it’s her glasses hanging on a chain.
“How was school?” she asks.
“I got an A minus on my English paper. And a B plus on my history quiz.” I have an A minus average for the semester, and I’m hoping that’s good enough for the Honors Project.
“Really? Good for you.” She searches for something else to say, then stands up to leave. I remember what Emily told me about how cool and distant I was with Mom and Dad. I decide to make an effort.
“So how’s everything going with you?” I ask her.
She stretches. “Fine. I have to go get ready. Your Dad and I are going to an art opening and dinner.”
In my belly, this angry red spot of heat begins to burn. They always go out to dinner. And then, when they want to know how I am, they ask Emily.
“Are you going just the two of you?”
“Yes, why?”
“Then, don’t go,” I tell her. “Have dinner with me, Ro and the girls. Be with us.”
Mom gives me a surprised smile. “I’d have to talk to your Dad and see how important this thing is.”
“We’re more important.” A stubborn tone creeps into my voice.
“Yes. You are. Let me talk to your dad. I’ll see what I can do.”
• • •
When Mom and Dad walk into the kitchen, the girls jump up in surprise. Molly runs over and grabs Mom’s hand, while Maddy throws her arms around Dad.
“Mommy! Daddy! What are you doing here?”
“Ryan invited us,” my father jokes.
Ha ha. Very funny, Dad. It practically takes an engraved invitation to get him to stay home with his kids.
“So. Nice of you to join us!” I sound as fake and elaborately polite as I can manage.
“Any time, kid,” Dad answers, brushing my crack off as a joke. He’s Mr. Smooth, all right.
We all protest when Ro leaves the kitchen, begging her to stay, but she insists. “I have my television show,” she says, leaving with a dinner plate. “Ryan, you know how to serve the meal.”
And so the Mills family sits down to a normal dinner together, the way families are supposed to. Nervous tingles are going down my spine, and I get this adrenalin rush as I hand my dad his plate. He looks small and far away, tinged in a red light.
We sit at the table in the bay window. Since it’s spring now, the garden’s filled with flowers. I tell Mom and Dad about school and my interest in the Teen League.
“I keep thinking that a program like that could’ve helped Michael, you know?”
“Yeah, poor kid,” Dad says. He gives a heavy sigh. He’s not the type to get all worked up about things on the outside, but I know Michael’s death hit him hard.
“How’s Miss Cruella?” I ask Molly.
“Better,” she says. “She’s not as mean as I thought.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“She gave me all A’s on my report card.”
I raise my water glass to Molly, who clinks it with her milk.
“Ryan, I need help with my serve,” Madd
y says.
“You just need to put more top spin on your second serve. I can give you some pointers.”
Dad is looking at me with a funny expression.
“What?” I ask him. He shakes his head.
“Nothing, just thinking.”
“Mom? Dad? Will you have dinner with us more often?” Maddy asks.
They look embarrassed. “Of course, kitten,” my mom says.
“Yeah,” I say, “We could actually act like a real family, for once.” There’s a hard edge to my voice that makes everyone get quiet for a second.
My mom’s looking down at her plate, cutting her food in tiny pieces. She spears some chicken and puts it in her mouth without raising her eyes from the plate.
I can feel it happening. My mouth’s disengaging itself from my brain. Emily had said I was distant toward my parents. I say the first thing I think of.
“Have I seemed withdrawn the last few years?” I ask. I can hear Emily’s voice. Tell them how you feel.
“Well, that’s a big question,” Dad says, taking a hard look at me. “I dunno. Has he?” He turns to my mom.
“It’s hard to tell with teenagers, particularly boys,” says Mom. “All my friends say their sons never talk to them about anything.”
“Oh, I’d talk to you if I weren’t so fucking pissed off.”
All movement in the kitchen stops.
I’ve even startled myself. I don’t usually swear. And I’d only meant to say “Pass the butter.” On the other hand, I’ve been building up to this confrontation for a long time.
“Language, Ryan!” Dad snaps.
Mom glances back and forth between Maddy and Molly. “Ryan. Not in front of the girls.”
“They can hear this,” I tell her. “It’s about them, too.”
“We’re staying,” Maddy announces.
“Why didn’t you guys come home after Michael overdosed?” All my anguish of the last three years pours out with the question.
They look like they don’t have a clue what I’m talking about. “We did,” Mom says. “Michael was fine. It was Nat and Yancy’s decision.”
“A week later,” I say. “You left us twisting in the wind for a week, while you played in the South of France!”
“It was Michael’s issue, not ours,” my mom says.
“It was our issue, too!”
Molly’s lower lip is trembling. “Yeah! It was our issue, too!”
“Don’t you remember, Mom? Molly and Maddy had nightmares for months after that! They saw Michael lying in the driveway. They thought he was dead!” Now Molly’s crying openly, and Maddy’s starting to sniffle. A second later, the dams burst. Both girls are spewing tears.
“I hope you’re happy, Ryan!” Mom gets them up from the table and propels the sobbing girls out of the room. “Now what am I going to do with these two?”
“Ring for Rosario. She’ll show you the ropes.”
Silence. I sit there with my dad, pissed off and making no apologies. Dad has no expression on his face at all. I know he’s not happy with me right now. Tough, I think. I’m not happy with him. Mom and Dad have done me wrong, and I’m calling them out on it, big-time.
“Why don’t we continue this in my study?” he suggests. The study’s the only room in the house, besides Rosario’s quarters, that has escaped Mom’s fleet of designers. The leather sofa’s worn and comfortable. I’ve spent thousands of hours on it, listening in on Dad’s meetings, talking to him about scripts, casting, locations, editing.
Dad intercoms up to the master bedroom. “Nadine?” Mom’s there, sounding tearful. “This may take a while. Why don’t you get some sleep, okay? Ryan’ll come talk to you tomorrow.” He rings off and sits in his old Lazy-Boy, another cherished survivor of the designer wars. I am sitting low in the sofa, legs splayed out in front of me, arms crossed on my chest. I am looking at Dad through narrowed eyes.
Dad’s voice could slice a diamond in half. “Tomorrow, I expect you to apologize to your mother and sisters.”
From the set of his jaw, I know he means business. I stare at the edge of the rug. “Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay. I will. “
“And Ryan? Don’t ever speak to your mother that way again.”
I feel his anger now, slicing through me like a thin, steel blade. I nod, unable to look at him. “I won’t. I swear.”
One good thing about Dad is, when something’s over, it’s over. My promise is good enough for him. He moves on.
“So let’s hear it,” he says abruptly. “What’s on your mind?”
I let him have it. The whole overdose story, how scary it was, the aftermath for me and the twins. Mom and Dad’s frequent absences from home. Their lack of involvement. I hold back nothing. I am shaking with rage. I didn’t even know I had this kind of anger in me.
When I’m done, Dad says, “So I guess it wasn’t a dinner invitation. It was more like an ambush?” Behind the irritated words, I hear something else, though—embarrassment or regret.
“Probably, but you deserved it,” I tell him. “Besides, what kid has to invite his parents to dinner in his own home? Parents are supposed to be home having dinner with their kids, at least once in a while.”
“All right. Point taken,” he says. He goes over to his bar and pours himself a Cognac. “Want one?”
“Yeah.”
He started doing this when I was twelve, serving me no more than a splash of liquor – it was the ceremony that mattered, not the drink. Today he measures me out a shot glass full, pouring it into a brandy snifter and handing it to me.
We sit there, being manly together. I know what he’s doing. My dad’s a master negotiator. Right now, he’s slowing things down, cooling me off, before we go at it again. I can feel it working, particularly after a few sips of the Cognac.
“Did you know your mother and I almost divorced?”
“Really? When?”
“Four years ago.”
“Why?” I ask.
“That’s between me and your mom. Let’s just say, we both made mistakes.” After a minute, he continues. “We went to counseling for a year, right before that trip to Cannes. That week after Michael’s overdose, we weren’t with Nat and Yancy.”
I think back to my conversation with Yancy. She had said Mom and Dad weren’t there and she would pass them a message. “Where were you?”
“Paris. We renewed our marriage vows and had a second honeymoon. It was important for us.”
“We’re important, too.”
“You three are the most important,” he agrees. “I’m just telling you what happened.” Dad swirls the Cognac in his glass.
“To be honest, I don’t think Nat and Yancy even told us that Michael had OD’d until we met up with them for the flight home.” Dad stares off into space, trying to remember. “Right or wrong, we thought of it as the Westons’ problem.”
“How can you say that, with Molly and Maddy crying every night and waking up with nightmares?” I can’t believe he didn’t notice that.
He goes to a shelf, pulls out one of his old calendars, and leafs through it. “Right after Cannes I was filming in Morocco for four months. So, I was gone during the time you’re talking about.” He and I look at each other from across the room. “I realize,” he says, “that didn’t do you much good. I wasn’t there for you.”
“Mom was here. She should have helped us.”
Dad suddenly looks tired. He walks back toward his Lazy-Boy. “Ryan, your mom loves you kids, and she tries. But she doesn’t have a clue how to deal with you.” He stands there by the books on his shelves, tracing a hand across a couple of them.
“She’s really kind of fragile, okay? Could you just back off for once, give her a little bit of a break?”
I nod. I’m staring at my shoe. I study the ins and outs of my shoelace. “Okay. I can try, too.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” Dad says, “with my schedule and the problems Nadine and I have had. I’
ve focused on work and the marriage, and Ro’s handled the three of you. We’ve kept all the balls in the air, but barely. And you kids haven’t gotten much from me and your mom.”
He stands up. “Let’s go outside for a minute, get some air.” He opens the French doors on one wall of his office that lead out to our garden with the reflecting pool and fountains. We step out and walk down in that direction.
The fountains are all lit with white light. There’s a little wind, which sends spray from the fountains against my face. I’ve always loved the sound of the running water and usually keep my bedroom window open so I can hear it at night.
We stand there for a moment, then I ask, “Why do you guys have to go out so much?”
“It’s important for my work. And it helps Nadine to get out, too.” Dad hesitates, then says, “And frankly, you weren’t such good company for a while there. We were having a lot of problems with you, acting like a belligerent smart ass. We thought it was hormones, but now I realize it was this thing with Michael.”
We walk along the reflecting pool and look across the lawn to the swimming pools, tennis court, and small basketball court. We have a long lap pool, a deep pool with a slide and diving board, and a separate shallow pool for little kids. I remember many outstanding summer afternoons with a pack of boys over to shoot hoops, play tennis, and have diving contests.
“Yeah, well, if you’ll have dinner with us sometimes, I’ll stop being a smart ass,” I tell him.
Dad gives me a dry look. “How about you stop being a smart ass, regardless,” he says. Then he goes on. “It takes hard work, you know, to have all this.” He sweeps an arm toward the pools and the rest of it.
“I’d rather have you than some tennis court.”
“I’ll work it out so we’re home more. Maybe not as much as you’d like, but more anyway. The truth is, I’d like to see you kids, too.”
For a while, we talk about other things: about school, the upcoming summer, the work on Mystery Moon. I update Dad on Chrissie’s condition.
“She’s okay to audition now.”
“Good! I’ll have Mitzi set it up.”
Dad and I have walked back through the French doors into his study. “In a way, it’s too bad you’re spending the summer in England,” he says.
