Sabina gives me the side eye as we approach her car. “Agree to disagree. But, really. What’s in Venice?”
“A guy.”
A strange look passes over her face. Not quite judgment, but something like it. “Don’t you have a date with Warren on Friday?”
I do. And it’s technically our first, since he’s always been wary of us officially going out before I turn eighteen. It’s the same reason he always stops us before we have sex. Warren and I have both known plenty of people who dated older in high school, and it’s not like my father would press charges or something. But my age has always made Warren nervous. Like he’s taking advantage of me. It took a whole year for him to kiss me.
“It’s not like that with him… the beach guy,” I say, though when I think of listening and watching him play, I’m not sure my feelings match my words. “He’s a musician. He performs with a girl, and he plays the violin.”
Sabina unlocks her car, tosses her bag into the back seat, and turns to face me. “Street performers?”
“Don’t say it like that. They’re actual musicians, you know.”
“What’s so special about them?”
“I guess that’s what I’m going back to find out. They’re really talented, and they looked so happy, and they weren’t even playing classical music. Maybe some of their magic can rub off on me.”
“Fair enough,” she says, because Sabina has listened to me wrestle with my feelings over violin for a while now. After Denis dropped me and then after my talk with Ortiz. “Well, I’ll come down and pick you up if you get mugged, I guess.”
“Ha ha. Have fun with Dame.”
“It’s sure to be a blast,” she says drily, getting into the driver’s seat.
The beach is decidedly cooler today than when I was here a couple of weeks ago. I wrap my arms tightly around myself, wishing I’d thought to bring a sweater. That’s one reason I could probably never live on the Westside, especially at one of the beaches. It’s so much cooler by the water, sometimes a twenty-degree difference compared with where we live on the Eastside.
I walk right to the spot where the guy was the last time, not bothering to pretend I’m here for anything else. I wish there was some meaningful scene, like I heard his music straining through the crowd as soon as I hit the boardwalk and followed it all the way to where he was set up on the sand, a beatific smile on his face as he played.
But he’s not playing, and there’s no him at all. The girl is here, perched on a folding chair with her viola resting carefully on her lap and her phone in her hand. Beside her, the other chair is occupied by a violin, but its owner is nowhere to be found.
I shift from foot to foot for a moment, unsure if I should stay and wait until they start playing again or walk away before she sees me.
Too late.
She looks up and back to her phone but then makes eye contact with me again. She doesn’t look away this time, and there’s no one to hide behind because of course if they’re not playing, there’s no crowd standing here.
She raises an eyebrow when I don’t say anything. “Yeah?”
“Um.” I don’t know why I’m so tongue-tied whenever I’m here, but it’s as if my mouth has completely forgotten how to work.
She sighs. “Looking for Omar?”
Omar.
Before I can respond, footsteps scuffle through the sand-covered sidewalk and the guy—seriously, is he her brother or boyfriend?—is standing next to me. “Who’s looking for me?”
The girl shrugs. “Her, I guess,” she says before staring back at the phone in her palm.
“Oh. Hey.” Then he looks at me a little closer. “I’ve seen you here before.”
“Yeah, I…” I hope he doesn’t remember how awkward I was last time, but he can’t, right? He’s on Venice Beach, a place constantly teeming with tourists and locals who are always doing or saying the wrong thing. I couldn’t stick out to him more than anyone else.
“Well, now you know my name, so it’s probably only fair if I know yours, too,” he says easily, like this happens all the time, girls coming up to look for him on the beach.
I hope not.
Standing this close, I see that some of his dark brown locs are streaked with gold, intermittently bleached by the sun.
“Yvonne,” I blurt, relieved to finally know what to say.
“Cool to meet you.” He nods behind him. “That’s Keely.”
She doesn’t look up.
“So…” His eyes are friendly but curious.
“I play, too,” I say quietly. “Violin.”
“No shit?” The smile that breaks out takes over his whole face, and it makes me relax. A little bit.
“No shit.” I smile back.
“You come down here to give us some tips?” He’s still grinning, though.
“God, no. I just…” I pause, trying to think of a good reason to explain why I’m here, but decide the truth is probably best. If I leave here embarrassed, I won’t ever have to see him again. “I’m actually having a hard time with violin right now. I play in my school’s orchestra, and I haven’t felt much of anything for it lately. But then I came here and saw you two and… I just really like your style.”
I’ve always felt a special connection to people who play the same instrument as me, and it feels the same with Omar—but stronger. His understanding eyes and relaxed demeanor don’t hurt, but there’s something more here. For the first time in a while, I feel excited to be talking about music. It’s like he’s flipped on a switch to a light that’s been darkened so long I forgot it existed.
Keely clears her throat, a sound that manages to cut through all the peripheral noise of the crowds and the softly crashing waves of the ocean and land right in my ear. “O, it’s time.”
“Gimme a sec,” he says over his shoulder. Then, to me: “Listen, I have to get back to work, but if you want to talk sometime, I know a little about that orchestra life. And how stifling it can be. I went to Berklee.”
“Oh, up north?”
“No.” He smiles as if he’s used to my response, and as soon as he does, I want to kick myself. “The one in Boston.”
Of course he didn’t mean UC Berkeley.
“I know it,” I say, my face flushing hot. “My teacher went there.”
“Cool. Well, if you ever want to talk—”
“Omar.” Behind him, Keely is done with her phone, her viola propped up vertically on her knees, guarding her like a shield.
He doesn’t bother turning around this time, just shoots me an apologetic look. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my number in.”
I do and he does, and Keely glares at his back the whole time. She can’t be his girlfriend, but maybe an ex? The way she’s looking at me, I know she’d rather never see me again. I watch Omar key in his number instead.
“Call me,” he says with a grin before he heads back to his violin and his impatient partner. “Anytime, Yvonne.”
“Thank you.” My skin burns hot when I realize I’m already wondering how long I should wait to get in touch with him. I tell myself it’s about the violin… but if it was just about music, I wouldn’t be so nervous. “That’s really nice.”
I walk away before they start playing, but not before I hear Keely saying, “What the fuck was that about?”
6.
I don’t feel any different when I open my eyes the morning of my eighteenth birthday.
After my shower, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for a while. I don’t look any different, either. I think about how Warren and I are probably going to take the next step tonight and breathe in deeply. It was easier to imagine being with him when it was a far-off possibility or maybe something that would never happen. I used to think he was using my age as an excuse, that he wasn’t really interested and didn’t know how to tell me. But I don’t think you can fake the way you look at someone you really like—Warren Engel can’t, anyway.
Dad is still asleep when I leave for school, but there’s a card
on the kitchen table. I put it in my bag to read later. My father gets too flustered when he tries to buy personalized gifts, but he’s consistently generous with the birthday cash. Warren texts when I’m getting into my car and says he can’t wait to see me later, that he’s got everything planned out for dinner.
At school, Sabina has decorated my locker with multicolored party streamers and balloons and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign made from poster board that people have started to write messages on. She sets a flower crown made of real pink roses atop my head and says I have to wear it all day. Lunch is two trays overflowing with curly fries from the caf and strawberry cupcakes that Sabina made last night.
“It’s funny how everyone’s nice to you on your birthday,” I say, resting my back against our favorite bench in the quad as I stretch my legs out on the grass.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Beside me, Sabina methodically licks buttercream frosting from the top of a cupcake.
“No, I mean, it’s cool, but it’s, like, one day a year when pretty much everyone agrees not to be an asshole to someone. Or if they are a dick and find out it’s your birthday, then they’re all sorry, like it makes a difference.”
“Has someone been a dick to you today?”
“I think everyone is aware it’s my birthday today,” I say, touching the crown on my head. “Thanks. Really. It’s nice.”
“If your best friend doesn’t make your day special, who will?” Sabina polishes off the rest of her cupcake.
“Warren,” I say with a straight face.
She watches me while she finishes chewing, her eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky it’s your birthday,” she says after washing down the cupcake with a sip of water.
“Why?”
She brushes crumbs from her hands and gives me a toothy grin. “Because I just stopped myself from being a dick to you.”
Warren tells me to come over at seven, but when I get to his apartment, he’s not there.
I knock four times before I use the spare key he gave me and let myself in. He’s probably out buying some last-minute thing for the meal. For someone who works so closely with food, Warren is terrible at grocery shopping. He’s always forgetting something on his list or forgetting his list entirely and having to shop by memory because he refuses to save things on his phone like a normal person.
As usual, Warren’s place is unbearably tidy. His favorite issues of Food & Wine are stacked on the counter that divides the galley kitchen from the rest of his studio apartment. Even the bed shoved into the opposite corner of the room is made.
I look in the fridge to see if I can tell what he’s making. My eyes immediately light on the pink box on the bottom shelf. A bakery box. I didn’t tell him I wanted a cake, but of course he wouldn’t have made it himself. Warren says baking doesn’t make sense, that there are too many rules; I like the mandatory precision it requires. I should wait to open the box, but I peek inside. The cake is gorgeous. Dark-chocolate ganache with two chocolate rosettes in the corner and HAPPY BIRTHDAY YVONNE swirled in perfect white script in the center.
I consider taking a picture to show Sabina how thoughtful he is, but I don’t want her to think I didn’t appreciate her cupcakes. I look at it for a few more seconds before I close the lid, wondering if it’s too pretty to eat.
I text Warren to tell him I’m here, then plop down on the futon. I’ve never been so comfortable at someone else’s place. Not even Sabina’s, where I’ve been going since I was twelve. Sabina is always cool, of course, but I worry about doing or saying the wrong thing in front of her moms. I don’t really know what it’s like to have another parent besides my dad, but I know how we are with each other isn’t so conventional. We talk to each other more like distant roommates than father and daughter, so I get self-conscious when I’m around other parents.
I guess I knew there was something different about Warren not long after we met. And it didn’t take long to feel like I’d known him forever. I told him about my mom only a few weeks after we started hanging out. Some people I’ve been going to school with for years don’t know anything about her except that she’s not around.
I told him how all my memories of her are happy. How we used to go everywhere together, and that lots of those places weren’t kid appropriate. There were concerts and expensive lunches in Beverly Hills and hiking trails that were so steep in some places, she had to carry me on her back. I told him how I hate that I have just a couple of blurry pictures of her: a profile shot where she’s wearing giant sunglasses and sitting on a stoop that’s not ours, and a faraway photo of her in front of the Pantages Theatre, waving at the person behind the camera. I don’t remember much about what she looked like—only her brown skin, the same warm shade as mine, and her black hair that was always big and soft.
Maybe it’s because his dad left, too, but Warren didn’t flinch when I said everything was perfect until the day she left. That I had no clue she was unhappy. I guess maybe I sensed there was something off with her and Dad. She spent more time with me than him, and he spent all his time at work. But I was six years old. It’s been twelve years now and I still barely understand how someone can say they love you to the moon and back one day and then disappear forever.
My phone rings. I don’t have to look down to know that it’s Warren. And I think maybe it’s a bad sign that he’s calling and not texting, because my heart starts to beat in that nervous way that tells me something’s wrong, no matter how much I don’t want it to be.
“I’m so sorry,” he says as soon as I answer. “I got caught up here at the restaurant and… I haven’t left yet.”
I try to keep my voice calm. “Why are you at the restaurant? Did he tell you to come in?”
On my birthday?
Warren sighs. “Jameson called in and I told your dad I could stop by for a couple of hours. Just to help him get things running, and then I’d have to leave.”
“But you let him talk you into staying.”
“I’m so sorry, Yvonne.” In the background, I hear my father’s voice over the usual kitchen sounds of clinking plates and hissing skillets. “I have everything ready at home. As soon as I get there, I’ll start on the food, okay?”
“Did you not tell him we have plans?” Not only is my voice no longer calm, it’s pitching higher and higher each time I speak. I put my hand to my throat as if I can will it to sound different.
“I’m his sous chef now.” He pauses. “I need to be here for him. You know how this stuff goes—”
“And you know I can’t be alone on my birthday. Why make this big deal about cooking me dinner and it being our first date if—this is really shitty, Warren.”
He sighs again. “Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry. I—”
“If you’re really sorry, you’ll walk out of there right now.” My hand is shaking and the phone is shaking and I think my voice might be, too.
“Yvonne, please.”
That means he’s staying. I don’t say anything, just let the silence grow between us.
“Yvonne. I can’t choose between you and my job.”
“I think you just did.” I hang up before he can finish pleading.
Warren has never disappointed me like this, and maybe it isn’t fair to put that sort of expectation on anyone, but I thought I was safe with him. And he knows how hard my birthday is each year—trying to balance the foolish hope that I’ll hear from my mother with the reality that I know I never will. I believed him when he said he’d never felt about anyone the way he feels about me. I thought I could let my guard down.
Before I leave, I take the pink box from the fridge, carefully remove the cake, and smash the whole beautiful thing on the kitchen floor.
7.
Damon lives a couple of streets over from Sabina—close enough to walk from her house but far enough away that her parents won’t hear the party. I circle the block a few times looking for parking without any luck.
When I do find a spot, just as someone is pulling away from the
curb, I parallel park on the first try. Then I shut off the ignition and sit. I feel numb.
I think about going inside for a while. After ten minutes have passed, I know I won’t be able to handle it. I’m angry with Warren, but I’m more disappointed in myself for trusting him. Maybe I should have come to the party with Sabina all along. Except now I’m here, and I don’t want to go in.
I could drive away. Let Sabina celebrate with me tomorrow, like we planned; a day late yet no less appreciated. But I know I’ll feel better if I see her, if only for a few minutes. I text her.
Parked outside. Please come out.
Her reply shows up almost instantly.
Just come in! Not too many people yet. Dame already wasted of course
Can’t
A couple of minutes later she’s running toward my car. I see her pounding down the sidewalk in my rearview mirror and then, before I can click the locks, she’s rapping at my passenger side window with her knuckles, shout-whispering at me to let her in.
She slides into the seat, takes one look at my face, and wraps her arms tight around my shoulders. “You okay?”
I shake my head, so she keeps hugging me. She smells like beer and cigarettes. She only smokes when she’s around Damon.
“Warren stood me up,” I say when I finally pull away.
“What? Oh, that mother—” she starts, her eyes narrowing into angry slits that I’m happy aren’t meant for me.
“No, I mean, he called. But he’s at the restaurant. He’s not even supposed to be working tonight.” I inhale, then let out the breath long and slow. “I really wanted tonight to happen, Sabs.”
“Your first date?”
“Yeah, and being together. Finally.”
“He’s an idiot. Who wants to be cooped up in a hot-ass kitchen when they could be having dinner with hot-ass you?”
I smile just a little.
“Really. You look superhot, Yvonne.”
I’m wearing a dress that I’ve been saving. It’s lacy and cornflower blue with long sleeves and a short skirt with a scalloped hem. “It’s not too much?”
Finding Yvonne Page 4
