Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  “What?”

  She purses her lips. “Omar is—I’ve never met anyone like him. He has, like, this magnetic pull, but he’s not someone you want to be attached to.”

  I frown. “You two do everything together.”

  “Look… I love him. I probably always will. But he’s unrealistic. He has all these plans and—I know this sounds harsh, but he’s not as good as he thinks he is. We’ve gone on a ton of auditions together, and I’m the only one they ever want for the gig. He went on tour with me because he really thought they were going to suddenly decide they needed both of us and not just me. He thinks he can get by on his charm and good looks, but it hasn’t worked yet.”

  I didn’t know that. He’s emphasized how much they’re a team that I assumed they were on the same level. But now that I think about it, I’ve never really heard him play by himself. And even during his solo parts, when he’s playing with Keely, I’ve always been more drawn to her talent. It seems to course right through her, like she’s not even trying.

  “There’s one more thing,” she says after a pause. “He’s not exactly who he says he is.”

  “Yeah, I know. He told me he works at a youth center downtown, and they’ve never heard of him.”

  “He’s still using that tired old lie?” She shakes her head, then absentmindedly squeezes a hand around her Afro puff. “Did he tell you about how we got to this house?”

  “He said you stayed in shelters and homeless camps…. Is that not true?”

  “That’s true,” she says. “But it didn’t have to be. I had to get away from my asshole dad, but Omar’s parents have money. Like, a lot. They sent him to Berklee, and then when he dropped out and said he didn’t want to go back to school, they cut him off.”

  My mouth drops open. “What?”

  “He’s a trust fund kid. And he’d have all that money if he stopped living like some hipster bum, but he’s too prideful. He even changed his name once he got out here.”

  I can’t say anything. I feel sick.

  “His real name is Grant, but he thought it sounded too white… too privileged. So he started going by Omar. I only found out after I saw his license a few months after we’d been living together.” She hesitates. “To be honest, maybe that’s another reason I can’t seem to get away from him. It feels safe, knowing he has something to fall back on if he gets his shit together. And he still gets money from his family. That’s the only reason we’re not still on the streets. One of his older brothers felt bad for him and started funneling him money in secret.”

  “This is all true?”

  “I wouldn’t lie about this,” she says. “I love him, but I don’t like him sometimes. I don’t want you to think you missed out on some great catch.”

  There’s something I need to ask her because I want to know the whole truth. It’s uncomfortable, but I forge ahead. “Were you guys still sleeping together when he and I were seeing each other?”

  “No,” she says in a firm voice. “We only hook up when neither of us is with someone else.”

  “And you believe he’s honest with you?”

  Her eyes narrow. “I think we’re done here. I’ve already told you too much.”

  That’s fair. “I’m glad you said something…. I thought you hated me.”

  “You seem like an okay person. I think you deserve to know.” She appraises me for a moment. “I can’t hate you. I don’t even know you.”

  Downstairs, the screen door slams. “Keely?” he calls out. “Is Yvonne here?”

  The sound of his voice makes me furious.

  Keely raises her eyebrows as if to say good luck before she retreats to their room.

  Omar greets me with a huge grin from his post at the bottom of the staircase. “Hey, sorry I’m late. Got held up running an errand and the train was late and—”

  “I went down to the Cooper Youth Center,” I say when I’m standing in front of him. “They said you don’t work there. They’ve never even heard of you.”

  I expect his face to go slack with remorse, but if there’s anything he’s better at than violin, it’s lying. “What? I’ve worked there for a while now. Maybe the person you talked to was new.”

  “She’s not new, and I’m not stupid. Is there anything I know about you that’s true? Were you ever going to tell me you share a bed with Keely?”

  “Oh, that.” He waves his hand in the air. “We’re roommates, nothing more.”

  “That’s another lie, and you know it.” My neck and face are getting hot.

  Finally, his shoulders drop in defeat. “Come on, Yvonne. So I slipped up. It’s not a big deal.” He moves closer to me. “It doesn’t change how we feel about each other… or our chemistry.”

  He slips his hands around my waist. I slap them away. He’s so shocked that he moves back, and I take that opportunity to step around him so he’s no longer standing in my path to the door.

  “I don’t want to see you again. Delete my number.”

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “Guess I was wrong about you being so mature for your age. You high school girls act so goddamn virtuous, but you didn’t think twice about fucking me, did you?”

  I am shaking with fury, but my words come out cool as ice.

  “I never pretended to be anything I’m not, but I know I don’t trust a fucking thing you’ve told me. Did you really leave Berklee or did they kick you out? It’s not like you’re anywhere near as talented as Keely is… Grant.”

  I don’t stick around to see if the guilt finally shows.

  I deliberately slam the door behind me and walk across the dying lawn of that dying house for the last damn time.

  30.

  When I asked my father if we could have dinner together, he seemed startled.

  He relaxed a little when I suggested we eat at the restaurant, that I could come by after they’d closed. I figured it was best to talk to him in the place he loves most, but I couldn’t bear the thought of talking about something so serious and personal in his cramped, sterile office.

  Luckily, Warren is off the night I go to the restaurant. We’ve texted a few times since our dinner, but we haven’t seen each other, and I think that’s best. He’s anxious to know my decision, and I wonder if it’s killing him, not being able to talk to my dad about something so big.

  I wait for my father at a table up front. It’s not a high-top, but it reminds me of the nights I used to do my homework in Lou’s restaurant. The dining room is almost empty; a couple sits in the corner, lingering over coffee and panna cotta.

  My heart won’t stop pounding. I know I don’t have to do this. I have enough money saved up that if I choose to have an abortion, I won’t need his help. But I know I can’t leave here tonight without telling him. Maybe I just want some real emotion from him. Or maybe this is a test—to see how he’ll react when I tell him I did one of the few things he said would upset him. I can’t help wondering if he’ll be so angry, so disappointed in me, that he might stop loving me.

  The restaurant has an open kitchen, so I can watch Dad working. He’s calmer toward the end of the night; he takes his time as he moves between the stations instead of zipping through like he’s running a race, and he seems considerably more patient with his staff.

  Once the stragglers have paid and left, my father comes over to get me. “Ready? I thought we’d eat over there, since it’s close to the kitchen.”

  I follow him to the table, the one Warren once told me is the best in the restaurant. Bottles of flat and sparkling water sit in the center, and a basket of fresh bread is placed between our plates. He’s treating this like it’s a real meal, like I’m someone important, and it touches me so much that tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don’t want him to look at me differently after this. Maybe things aren’t great between us now, but I don’t want them to change for the worse.

  “Okay now,” he says, coming back from the kitchen with the first plate. He sits down, still in his chef coat. “First up: fr
ied chicken liver salad.”

  He serves me first and I dig right in, making sure there’s a piece of crispy liver on every forkful of greens. “This is so good,” I say before I’ve even finished chewing. Thank God my appetite is back, at least for this evening.

  “You like it?”

  “Yeah, is it new?”

  “It is. And I’m glad to see you scarfing it down because you hated chicken livers when you were a little girl.”

  “I did?” I look down at my plate, shocked that I could ever hate anything that tastes this good.

  “Hated. They weren’t fried, so I’ll give you that. But I tried to feed them to you with dinner one night, and you spit them out. Right on your place mat.” He laughs a little—a chuckle, almost. “That’s the only food I can remember you not liking.”

  “Really?”

  He swallows his bite. “Oh, yeah. You liked some things more than others, of course, but you’ve always been easy with food. Never a picky eater. You get that from me, you know.”

  “Obviously.” But that makes me wonder if my mother was picky. I shove another bite of salad into my mouth so I won’t be tempted to ask. He seems to be in a good mood, and I need to preserve that for as long as I can.

  “So, what’s the occasion?” he says, gesturing to the table. To us purposely spending time together.

  “Can—can we wait until dessert?”

  He squints at me. “That bad, huh?”

  “Maybe I just want to enjoy your food.”

  “Mmhmm.” But he appeases me and asks how school is going, which leads to talk about college applications. And for the first time since I’ve started thinking about what to do after I graduate, I feel good discussing my choices.

  “I’ve been researching music therapy programs.”

  “Music therapy, huh? So you’re sticking with the violin after all.” He doesn’t seem to think it’s a good or a bad idea. He just sounds thoughtful.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, Lou told me about his offer. Is that an option for you?”

  I take a long drink of water. “Maybe, but… I never thought about being a pastry chef. Do you think I’m good enough?”

  “I think you surprised the hell out of me with how talented you are,” he replies. “And that’s without any training.”

  My face burns at his approval.

  He gets up to take the salad plates back to the kitchen and returns with the entrée: ricotta-filled ravioli with caramelized figs, prosciutto, and rosemary. “Something a little lighter, after all those chicken livers.”

  Dad continues after he serves himself. “Yvonne, I know it’s a big leap, deciding what you’re going to do after high school… or what you think you’re going to do. But nothing is guaranteed. I took a chance on this place and, honestly, I lucked out. About sixty percent of restaurants fail in the first year, and eighty percent within the first five years. You don’t think I was terrified that I’d have to go crawling back to Lou for help? Or worse, for a job?”

  “But you love what you do. I like baking—I really like it. But it doesn’t feel like what I was born to do.”

  “Some people don’t figure out what they were meant to do until later in life,” he says. “Some start out doing what they thought they wanted and realize it’s not at all what they should be doing. It’s a journey, and you can’t expect yours to look like anyone else’s.”

  I try to make my pasta last as long as possible. I’m aware that with every bite of ravioli, the closer I am to sharing my secret. To ruining this nice evening we’re having. I’m practically shaking by the time he takes our plates away and returns with panna cotta for us to share. I don’t even pretend that I’m going to eat it, and when I glance up, my father is sitting down, looking at me. Waiting.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I take a quivering drink of water and try again. Nothing.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I stare at him, swallowing hard. “How did you…?” I look down at my stomach to see if I somehow didn’t realize I’m showing, but it’s still flat as ever. It’s still too early for that.

  “Just a guess. Oh, Yvonne.” He doesn’t sound disappointed. Just tired. Like he doesn’t have the energy to even engage with something like this right now. Or ever. He doesn’t hesitate at all before he asks, “Is it Warren’s?”

  “Did he tell you?” He promised he wouldn’t, but then Warren has always been weakest where my dad is concerned.

  “He hasn’t said a word.”

  “I don’t—I don’t know whose it is.” No matter how many times I say this, I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m hearing someone else speak instead of myself. “Either Warren or… there was another guy. We hung out for a while.”

  “You’re sure you’re pregnant? You’re not just late?”

  “I’m sure. And I was safe, but I guess nothing is one hundred percent.”

  “Well.” Dad takes a drink of coffee, then leans forward on his elbows. I swear, deep bags just appeared under his eyes in the last two minutes. “Mistakes happen. I’ll give you money to take care of it.”

  “What if I don’t want to take care of it?” I’m not sure what the right decision is, but I know I don’t want him making it for me.

  His face sets into a deep scowl. “Don’t be foolish, Yvonne. You’re in no position to take care of a baby right now. You just sat here and told me you don’t even know what to do with your life.”

  “What if being a mom is the answer?” I don’t know that it is, but I am feeling stubborn. And upset. That I don’t have a mother to discuss this with, that my father is so willing to make this decision for me when he has no idea what it’s like to be me.

  “You really think your calling is to be a teenage mother?” He shakes his head, looking at the bottle of sparkling water. “I raised you to know you can be more than that.”

  “No, you raised me to learn how to be alone all the time.”

  He looks at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “You are never around. And when you are, there’s always someone else with us, like Warren or Lou.”

  “You know that’s the nature of my job. That’s what puts food on the table and what paid for all those violin lessons over the years. I have to work, Yvonne.”

  “I’m lonely.” The words don’t come easily, but I force them out. “I hate that I have to eat dinner alone and that you’re never up to see me off to school. I hate that you being successful means I miss out on having a full-time father.”

  He swallows. “I know I haven’t been a perfect dad, but I’ve tried to make sure you were on the right path. Having a baby when you graduate high school isn’t the right path. I don’t want you to become another statistic.”

  “Why do people never say anything about ‘statistics’ to white kids? I’m a statistic if I have an abortion and a statistic if I have a baby. Black kids don’t even get a chance to think about doing something wrong before everyone’s telling us how vital it is that we don’t mess up.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. What would people say if they knew you basically spend every waking moment of your day stoned?”

  He throws his napkin on the table. “That has never once hindered my career or my ability to take care of you. It’s nobody’s business but my own.”

  “And this is my business. I’m eighteen. I don’t need your approval for what I do with my body.”

  “No, but you need my roof over your head. How are you going to take care of a baby with no job and no place to live?”

  “So you’d kick me out if I have it. Is that what you’re saying?”

  He ignores the question. “And who’s going to help you take care of it, huh? This other guy, whoever he is? Because I know for damn sure Warren Engel is not ready to be a father.”

  He runs a hand over his face, and I know he’s at his breaking point, but I can’t quit talking.

  “Did Mom leave because she didn�
�t want to take care of me?”

  “Yvonne, stop.”

  “Was it because of me? Is that why she left? I deserve to know.” Tears that have been pent up for years are streaming down my face by this point, but I don’t wipe them away.

  “Please stop.”

  “Do you wish she’d had an abortion?”

  “Yvonne, that is enough.” He’s standing now, glaring at me. “You are better than this—smarter than this. I will not stand by and watch you ruin your life when you could have a perfectly good education and career ahead of you.”

  “I wouldn’t be like her,” I whisper. “I wouldn’t just up and leave.”

  “You need to go home.” He turns his back to me. “Go to bed, and we’ll talk about this when you’ve had some rest.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but there’s nothing else to say. He’s said exactly what he thinks, and there’s no arguing with him when his mind is made up like this.

  I’ve rarely seen him so mad, and I know it’s partly because I brought up my mother.

  I also know that he didn’t tell me I was wrong when I asked if I am the reason she’s gone.

  31.

  There’s a text waiting for me from Warren when I get out of my last class the next day. He’s outside—well, waiting outside school grounds.

  I slowly walk toward his car on the street, preemptively dreading what’s going to happen between us. I’m feeling even worse after talking to my father. Every time I replayed our conversation today, I wanted to shrivel up into my seat and disappear. Go back to bed and sleep until I forget about everything.

  I get into the passenger seat and we stare at each other for a while in uncertain silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Warren finally says. “I was a dick to you and… I’m sorry. Turns out I’m pretty bad at this stuff.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s good at it.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I mean, can we go somewhere?”

  So we drive. I don’t tell him where to go, and he doesn’t say where he’s going. I don’t think he knows. We end up at a little diner in Hollywood. It’s so nondescript that I wonder if it’s one of those places that looks super-average but is actually iconic among longtime residents, known for the best cheeseburger or onion rings or guacamole.